Purgatory
by Bluenblack
Summary: Trip is tempered in the Forge.
1. Chapter 1

**Purgatory – Chapter 1 **

**By Blackn'blue (aka Bluenblack)**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Star Trek. I wrote this for fun. Feel free to download, copy or pass this around. Just don't sell it. If I can't make any money from this, nobody else gets to either.

**Rating:** PG (Violence, Language, Adult Situations)

**Description:** This is the fourth story in my series that began with "For Want of A Nail" and continued with "In the Cold of the Night" and "Father to the Man". I suggest reading those before tackling this one. Otherwise many of the references won't make any sense.

(This chapter was originally submitted to TriS in smaller chunks during March and April of 2007.)

* * *

**Introduction **

Trip glanced up. The little K'Bet was still barely visible under the edge of the rock, only a trace of its fur showing at the edge of the shade. He went back to unraveling a string from the hem of his long tunic. The coarse woven material came apart with relative ease, which Trip suspected might be intended. When it came to Vulcans, very little was ever left to chance.

The eyeball frying light of Eridani beat down on the Forge like the angry hammer of a frustrated Hephaestus, working off a bad hangover after a long night of carousing on Mount Olympus. The thin air was still, for which Trip felt grateful. The Sandfire storms were always preceded by brief gusts of wind, according to T'Pol. This part of the season was the least likely time for them anyway. That was why the Kahs-Wahn was conducted during this period. The Vulcans were out to test their children, not get them killed. As long as he stayed in the shade during the day he ought to be safe enough.

Trip pulled the meter long piece of string loose and started twisting it into a tight cord. The K'Bet was doing the same thing Trip was, sitting tight and waiting out the heat of the day. He should have plenty of time to set the snare.

Trip paused to take a sip from his canteen. He capped it quickly and held the mouthful until it soaked in. Thankfully the insulated canteen kept the water cold. He could taste the salt tablets that T'Pol had added when she filled it for him at the house before they left.

"_You must remember to add two of the salt tablets and one of the mineral tablets each time you refill the canteen, Trip." _

"_Yes, Mommy," Trip had grinned at her and kissed her cheek. _

"_This is not a matter for levity, Husband." T'Pol's eyes reflected her worry, even if her expression stayed calm. "You could easily become disoriented or lose consciousness if your electrolytes are allowed to deplete themselves. If that happens, death will follow quickly. Please remember to do this." _

"_I swear," he had promised, holding up his hand. _

His lips quirked in a fond smile. At least he had a canteen, unlike the Vulcan children. Trip knew it was foolish, and he wasn't going to argue the point, but he had still felt odd being the only one equipped with a canteen, an emergency blanket, and a pocketknife. This was on top of being the only adult in the group to begin with.

"_Heck, if those kids can do it I can do it,", _he reassured himself. Trip eased his scorched backside off the flat rock and over to the soil against the back wall of the overhang. The bare dirt felt hot too. The atmosphere was a case of six of one, half a dozen of the other. It was too thin and hot to breathe properly, but if it was any thicker he would be steamed like a clam. Trip estimated that he had somewhere around four more hours of daylight to endure before sunset, and then another hour before T'Khut rose and he could get moving. A nap would help pass the time but there was no possible way a Human could sleep under these conditions.

The cord was ready. Trip tied a slip noose and inched his way to the far end of the overhang where the K'Bet had dug out a temporary day burrow. The little critters were shaped like hamsters and about the size of a rat. With any luck one of them would keep him going for two days. The Kahs-Wahn ordeal was ten days long. For the Vulcan kids that meant ten days with only the food and water they could scrounge, and no weapons to take with them.

However, allowances had been made for Trip. He grimaced and remembered squirming uncomfortably as T'Pol presented the special authorization, signed by T'Pau herself, that entitled him to carry a small supply of water in a reusable container, a protective covering, and a small knife. Trip's face had flushed crimson when all those solemn young faces looked up at him with poorly hidden disdain.

_T'Pau had nodded as T'Pol finished her, for a Vulcan, impassioned plea. Trip stood nearby with a strong desire to sink into the floor in embarrassment. He knew T'Pol was right, but it sure didn't help his ego to hear her enumerate all the ways he wasn't fit to survive on Vulcan. _

"_Your point is well made and quite logical," T'Pau admitted. "Trip is physiologically incapable of surviving without water for more than a day in the conditions that prevail on the Forge. Perhaps even less. The purpose of the Kahs-Wahn is to provide a realistic assessment of survival skill. Realistically, if Trip were actually stranded in the Forge without water he could not hope to survive more than a day. Much less ten days. And there are only two points on the entire course where water can be obtained from the land that are less than a day's travel apart." _

"_Regarding the survival blanket and knife," T'Pol doggedly continued her sales pitch, "it is true that Humans are well adapted to surviving cold. But Trip will require occasional shelter from solar radiation over and above what is available from the landscape. The melanin in his skin is inadequate to protect him from the full force of Vulcan solar radiation. The emergency blanket can be used to provide shade. And the small knife will compensate for the fact that Trip has never been trained in the art of flint crafting." _

Not formally trained, no. Trip remembered watching his Starfleet survival instructor tapping out a crude obsidian knife during his Outback training. But he had never been put through an actual course of study on the subject, that much was true.

He spread the loop carefully over the opening in front of the K'Bet's hole and backed off to the end of the string, looping it once around his hand. Trip settled himself gingerly into a reasonably uncomfortable position and started taking the deep, slow breaths that would help him enter into the first level of meditation. He figured that if he could manage to make it into the second level of mediation it would not only help the time pass faster, it would also slow his metabolism enough to conserve water and energy.

As Trip felt his muscles relax he closed his eyes and allowed his other senses to open wide. His own heartbeat started thundering in his ears. His breathing became a soft breeze that marched in rhythm to the rustle of his shirt. A faint trickle of sand told him that the K'Bet had shifted position slightly, and his hand reflexively twitched.

Little by little he sank further into himself. The second level was still difficult for Trip, even after all the hours that T'Para had spent patiently working with him. But he reached it eventually and felt the peace work its way into his bones. Deep in his mind, much like the way _Enterprise's_ engines could be felt throbbing through the deck plates on the bridge, Trip could feel the power of the mating bond pulsing. He gladly touched it and focused his attention, sending an image of the ledge where he sat.

Trip held the picture in his mind for several seconds before releasing it. He waited calmly until an answering image formed. T'Pol was holding their baby, T'Lissa, and sitting on her meditation bench. A strong feeling of relief came through, along with pure love and concern. There was also, like a ghostly echo, the tiniest feeling through the bond of T'Pol physical connection with the baby. T'Lissa's innocent satisfaction brought a smile to Trip's face as the connection faded.

He settled in to finish his vigil. Another three and a half hours now, and supper should be served. Then he could get moving. Only nine more days to go.

&

**Chapter 1**

_Enterprise _cruised serenely in orbit over Vulcan. To all outward appearances, she seemed at peace with the entire galaxy. However, a closer look would have revealed appearances to be somewhat deceiving.

"What the hell do you think you're doing! Get your frickin' ass out of my kitchen, damn you!"

The sound of a quick swish culminated in a clang, provoking a shout. "Holy shit! You don't have to sling a cleaver at me, Chef! I'm going! I'm going!"

"If you aren't out of here in ten seconds, I'm going to do more than sling it at you! What do you mean, coming in here and poking around in my larder half an hour before time to start cooking lunch?"

"I was just looking for a snack! Honest!"

"I'll give you a snack! I'll shove this skillet down your throat! Get out! Out! OUT!"

The hapless crewman ducked and ran like a rabbit. He dashed past the serving counter and through the deserted dining area, making it through the door into the corridor in a leaping bound. It truly wasn't his day. Just as he glanced back through the closing doors to make sure that Chef was no longer in hot pursuit, he discovered the hard way that the ship's First Officer had paused to observe the proceedings.

"Oof!" Lieutenant Commander Reed whooshed and fell back against the far wall, while Crewman Butler dropped headlong at his feet. They both paused to catch their breath for a few seconds, while Butler wildly wondered if he could get away with slithering off down the hallway on his belly like a snake.

Malcolm looked down at the supine young man, who had just joined the crew during their last visit to Earth, and shook his head. "Nobody warned you, did they, Butler? 'Trouble rather the tiger in his lair than the Chef amongst his pots'."

Crewman Butler decided that Commander Reed didn't sound overly murderous at the moment and dared to rise to attention. "I am terribly sorry sir. That was unforgivably clumsy of me."

"Don't worry about it," Malcolm told him, with a comradely clap on the shoulder. "If Chef had been after me with a cleaver I wouldn't have been watching for anything in my path either." The pair started walking down the corridor. "I could hear him bellowing like a scandalized bull halfway to the Armory," he added.

"I could understand him being territorial," Butler said in an aggrieved voice, "but I never thought he would go ballistic like that. What is he, some kind of sociopath?"

"Worse," Reed grinned. "He's a retired MACO."

A choking noise emitted from Butler's throat. "A MACO? I had a MACO coming after me with a cleaver?" His color was approaching a shade that would, in a Vulcan, be considered quite normal.

Reed shot him a mildly sadistic look, but then relented. "Relax. If he had wanted to hurt you, he would have. Everyone in the crew gets tested and qualifies with basic weapons, you know that. Chef may be getting up there in years, but he hasn't forgotten how to shoot or throw a knife. His accuracy scores with phase pistol, throwing knife, and pulse rifle are consistently among the top 5% on the ship. He was just trying to scare you."

"He succeeded," Butler affirmed. "So how did a retired MACO end up on Enterprise?"

"Captain Archer recruited him," Reed explained. "I'm not sure what rank Chef reached in the MACOs. That's not part of his Starfleet record, and I haven't been able to get those clerks at administration to get off their duffs long enough to dig it out. But he was a thirty year man. He cashed out and opened a restaurant in San Francisco, about ten blocks from Starfleet headquarters. Before six months it was one of the most highly rated places in town."

"So what happened?" Butler wondered.

"Boredom," Reed told him. "Five years of running a restaurant and listening to civilians chatter started driving him crazy. When Captain Archer came in and told him that he wanted the best Chef he could get for his crew, and that Lafayette was the man he wanted, Chef jumped at the chance to get off the ground."

"Okay," Butler said. "Now I know better than to scrounge unauthorized snacks. Guess I better make a habit of gathering up extra crackers and fruit during meals and stashing them."

"Just don't let the Steward catch you," Reed told him cheerfully as they parted at the turbolift. "He is still fuming over those mice that snuck aboard last time we took on fresh supplies. Any loose food outside the mess hall will have him chasing you with a broom."

"I can't win," Butler moaned.

"Look at it this way," Reed consoled him as he stepped aboard the lift. He turned to face the young man and told him, just before the door slid shut, "between dodging Chef and running from the Steward, you should be in top shape when it's time for your next physical."

Reed stepped onto the bridge with a smile, only to find Captain Archer waiting for him. "Ready to go, Malcolm?"

"Yes, Sir," Reed replied, surprised. "But I thought you wanted to go over those duty rosters first."

"Changed my mind," Archer said, a touch acerbically. "If we are going to get the ball rolling on these negotiations, I want to start as fast as possible. We can't really do much with the Andorians themselves until Trip gets back from his little camping expedition. But at least we can lay some groundwork with T'Pol and obtain some preliminary results to report to Ambassador Trask."

Reed firmly kept his mouth shut, but he traded a meaningful glance with Hoshi, who stood nearby with pursed lips. There was no point in trying to reason with the Captain when he was like this. It was better to let him work off his mood on his own. The three of them headed for the turbolift as Archer tossed back over his shoulder, "You have the bridge, Mr. Mayweather."

"Yes, Sir," Travis replied. He slid out of his place at the helm and settled into the command chair with a grin, running his hands over the arms in satisfaction. Once the lift doors had closed behind the other three officers Travis took a long slow look around the deserted bridge and permitted himself a triumphant chuckle. He rubbed his hands together theatrically and chortled, "It's mine I tell you. Mine. All mine."

&

Trip's cheeks puffed as he blew out his breath in quick exhalations. In the back of his mind he kept a slightly distracted count of his paces while the front of his mind kept watch for large hungry things.

"Twenty-four, twenty-five." Trip let his stride slow to a walk and started the count again. T'Khut was high and starting her slide down the western half of the sky. He had been wolf running all night, with only brief pauses for gasping relief. Walk 100 paces, jog 50 paces, sprint 25 paces, walk 100 paces again.

The air was cold and clear as glass, as it always was on Vulcan at night. For nearly four months now, Trip had been exercising under Vulcan gravity and atmosphere. His vital capacity was expanding to levels that the Human doctor at the Earth embassy called "extraordinary". But half a night of quick traveling through the Forge was pushing pretty close to his absolute limit. He needed to find a good place to settle in to catch some safe sleep for the rest of the night, and then hide from the sun for the daylight hours.

He needed high ground with a steep approach, preferably sheer rock. Some kind of overhang for shade. Signs of prey nearby would be a bonus, but not critical. He still had over half of the K'Bet left. Trip shuddered. If he could keep it down this time. He had checked before leaving home, and T'Pol had confirmed, that there were no microorganisms or parasites present in any of the small animals native to the Forge that were likely to transfer to a Human host. So Trip could safely eat anything that he caught raw. But that sure didn't make it palatable.

That ridge up ahead looked promising. Trip veered slightly to his left and started ascending the slope, picking his way with extreme care from one solid foothold to another. A twisted ankle out here would mean certain death for him. Even with the bond, assuming he could get a cry for help through to T'Pol, by the time she arranged transportation and someone reached him he would have died from the heat or the wildlife.

Excessive paranoia was called for. Paranoia, plus stubborn patience to keep digging his toes into the sand, meticulously testing one step after another. Bullheaded suspicion was the price of life on Vulcan. Trip had already learned that much.

The ridge top was windswept rock, weathered and fractured. Trip kept a wary eye open for carnivorous plants. Vulcan's answer to the Venus Fly Trap had tentacles that could snap out and grab passing animals, or people, like a striking snake. There were also some venomous thorn bushes that could kill you within two steps, dropping a nice bit of fertilizer to enrich the bush's nearby roots. Not to mention the nasty little animal buggers that had a habit of hiding _under_ the plants.

An upthrusting boulder ahead of him beckoned with an intriguing crack near the base. As Trip got carefully closer, the crack started to look more and more like a small cave. "_Jackpot," _he thought gleefully. Now all he had to do was make sure nobody was home.

No such luck of course. A nest of Dorloths had settled in and set up housekeeping. _"Only to be expected,"_ Trip reflected philosophically. A prime location like this was not likely to remain open long, with the real estate market around here being what it was. The twelve legged spider-scorpions were longer than Trip's foot, and they came equipped with both fangs and stinger tails. Either end could paralyze him, leaving him helpless while the nest swarmed over and drained him. Not a prospect that appealed to him very much. Trip eased up to the opening with exaggerated caution and took a careful count. Nine of them. Two adults and seven smaller ones. All right. He backed off and started gathering rocks.

At least Dorloths were confined to the ground. Unlike Terran spiders, they were not good climbers. That was a major advantage for which Trip had already given thanks more than once. Vulcan gravity was so high, and tall vegetation was so unusual, that most animals were lousy climbers. Dorloths were exoskeletal. A well aimed rock could break their shells. He hoped. First though, he needed to block their escape. If they got out of there and surrounded him, he would be in trouble.

A scream split the night and Trip's muscles locked. His nostrils flared in atavistic reflex and he tilted his head in the direction of the sound. Le-Matya. Naturally, it had to be one of the few Vulcan animals that could climb. Quite a distance off though. Trip crouched without moving for several minutes until the cat shaped lizard squalled again, then he relaxed. He was downwind from the Le-Matya, and it sounded like it was moving away from him anyway. Once he got inside the cave he was home free. Nothing big enough to eat him could get through that crack. As soon as he squashed the bugs that is.

The Dorloths were quiescent at night, so Trip managed to get enough large rocks piled in front of the cave entrance to barricade them inside. Then he piled up a generous supply of ammunition and started letting fly. The biggest adult took the first hit with a satisfying splat. The carapace busted like a purple egg, spattering green blood and yellowish ichor in all directions. However the noise roused the rest of the nest and from that point on it became a challenging contest of picking off a series of moving targets. After the second adult went down Trip started to relax. The youngsters were not likely to be able to kill him before he could smash them. Even if they got through and bit him, he could probably finish them off with a rock or his fist before the paralysis hit. The venom itself was not lethal to Humans, it would just leave him sick as a dog. As long as the bugs were dead, he could wait it out.

It seemed to take forever, but he finally killed the last of them. The stench was nauseating and Trip was devoutly glad for the cold air of night. He slipped into the mouth of the cave and kicked the carcasses out the door with revulsion. Eating the things was out of the question. He would never be that hungry. The crack was narrow but tall enough for Trip to stand upright, with walls that leaned together and joined about two meters over his head. It was surprisingly deep, deeper than it had appeared from outside, and Trip felt a twinge of concern about other occupants. He held his breath and listened for any movement or the sound of breathing.

He heard something and his belly tightened. The T'Khutlight behind Trip threw his shadow across the sandy floor and stretched his distorted form along the twisted back wall. He took a deep, silent breath through his mouth and let it out slowly. Then he stopped breathing and listened again. It sounded like something pecking. Trip's brow wrinkled. He couldn't offhand think of any critter that made a pecking sound. There wasn't any equivalent to the woodpecker on Vulcan. A rockpecker? Not likely. More bugs would rustle, and besides they would have come to help defend the nest when he attacked. The small mammals were no threat to him. Some of the lizards were venomous, but few were lethal to a Human.

Trip opened his knife and picked up the ugliest looking rock he could find. One foot length at a time. One breath at a time. The passage curved just enough to hide the far end in shadow. But the light from T'Khut was bright enough that even the diffuse reflections off the light colored stone provided as much light as a half moon on Earth. Nothing seemed to be moving. Trip waited.

Something moved in the corner of his vision. Trip did not react, except to shift his eyes toward the point where he had seen the flicker. Then it came again. A tiny drop of water formed at the tip of a stone chip and hung for an instant before dripping to splash onto the stones beneath it.

Trip let out a rebel yell that shattered the public peace. Heedless of dignity or sore feet, he started dancing in joy. "Yes! Yes! YEESSS!" he screamed out at the indifferent alien stones. "Kiss my ass Vulcan! Think you can kill me? Think again you burned out excuse for a planet! I FOUND WATER!" He whooped again and and fell against the wall, laughing in relief.

T'Pol had explained about these. The Kahs-Wahn course was laid out to intersect with seven known sources of dependable water. A check point was established at each of the seven springs with a stack of uniquely inscribed disks. Each participant was required to obtain a disk from each of the check points to confirm that they had successfully completed that section of the course. But in addition to the known springs, there were other sources of water in the Forge. Some of the other springs were seasonal. Some were underground and only reachable if one had digging tools. And some, like the one Trip had found, were simply unknown. If he could remember the location of this spring and report it when he got back, and if it proved to be dependable, he would be officially credited as its discoverer.

First things first. He walked over and held his hand under the drip. When the next drop hit his palm he brought it up to his nose and sniffed, then touched it with his tongue. Trip worked it around his mouth and smiled. It was sweet water, no odor or taste of any contaminants. Beautiful. He returned to the entrance and replaced the barricade to guard against any daytime visitors. This drip certainly explained the Dorloth nest, and would likely mean that Trip could expect a full dance card tomorrow. But he was ready and willing to fight to defend his little oasis.

Trip moved his ammunition to the back wall. Then he walked over to examine his treasure trove. He nodded. Trip knelt and started scooping stones and sand out from under the drip, leaving a shallow earthen depression for the drops to fall into. The water began to form a tiny puddle and instantly sank into the ground while Trip unfolded his emergency blanket. The silver colored, waterproof material was more than big enough to line the bottom of the depression with plenty of room left over. Trip smoothed the material at the bottom of his dirt basin and watched the drops start to collect in delight. He unscrewed the lid from his canteen, about one fourth of a cup in capacity, and placed it carefully in the bowl where it would catch the water. He started counting seconds.

When the lid was full Trip picked it up and took a sip. Akaline but not really bitter. Quite drinkable. Trip did a quick calculation. It took two minutes and thirty-six seconds to fill a quarter of a cup. At that rate he would have plenty of time to fill his canteen before sunrise. Then he could sit all day tomorrow in the comfy shade and sip cool water.

Trip's grin stretched so widely that his jaw muscles started to ache. It didn't get any better than this. If his landmark navigation was on track, he should be able to make it to the first check point before the end of tomorrow night and pick up his first confirmation disk. That would make him right on schedule to complete the ordeal in ten days. Trip sighed a little as he remembered hearing that some of the kids had been known to complete it in as little as six days. But he would be satisfied merely to complete it.

"Like that Philosophy of Religion seminar back in school," Trip muttered. "If I can just pass this one test I will take my little C grade and go on with my life. I can live without perfection this once. Good enough is good enough."

&

Phlox was waiting at the shuttle bay when they arrived. The doctor seemed in an unusually cheerful mood, even for him. Captain Archer pulled out of his sulk far enough to grumble, "You look awfully happy for some reason."

"And why not, Captain?" Phlox cheerily responded. "A chance to see some old friends. An opportunity to stretch our legs and get some fresh air on a safe, highly civilized planet where all possible amenities are immediately available. I will have the opportunity to consult with my colleague Healer Kerlek about his research results. And no dangerous aliens are shooting at us. What more could one possibly ask?"

Archer found himself unable to come up with a negative answer that didn't sound petulant, so he just grunted and climbed into the shuttle. Hoshi sighed and shook her head. The man was like a child when he didn't get what he wanted instantly. Honestly, she really felt like smacking him sometimes. Malcolm carefully kept a poker face and followed the other three aboard the craft. They strapped in without a word.

Archer got clearance from Travis and launched the shuttle briskly. Once they were in flight his nerves settled down a bit. Being at the controls of a ship, any ship, always made Archer feel better. Even if Trip was too busy with his vacation to bother helping Earth obtain a warp seven engine, they could still get things started. He set his jaw. At least T'Pol should be a little more reasonable.

Vulcan Space Central provided clearance and landing directions to the central port at Shi'Kahr. Ambassador Trask had sent his personal air car and driver to meet them. The quartet were hustled briskly inside and found themselves whizzing above the streets of Vulcan's capitol city at eye blurring speed.

The Embassy started looming in the distance within a few minutes, looking to Malcolm's critical eye like a half melted mushroom with stalactites hanging around the perimeter to prop it up. The Vulcan driver smoothly dropped to street level, leaving three Human and one Denobulan stomach hanging in midair, and slid the air car under the lip of the mushroom with effortless precision. His passengers climbed out on unsteady legs and concentrated on regaining their balance and breath.

The driver walked around to the passenger compartment and told them, "Pass through the green door in front of you. Proceed down the ramp 34.5 meters to the double doors and pass through them. Turn left immediately and follow the hallway an additional 27 meters to the reception area where someone will be waiting to greet you." He turned and walked off, leaving his bemused cargo to wander on their way.

Archer shook his head and led the his away team on their venture into the depths of diplomacy. Nearing the reception area, which proved to be near the main entrance of the embassy building, they spotted three figures standing by the front desk.

Ambassador Trask was a rotund man of middle age with gray streaked dark hair. He was of medium height, above medium girth, and lacked any distinguishing physical features. At first glance he seemed remarkably unremarkable. Until you saw his eyes. The second member of the trio, also Human, wore a Starfleet uniform bearing the rank of a Vice-Admiral. The last member of the group was a young Vulcan man who wore a Healer's robe and looked vaguely familiar to Archer.

"Welcome, Captain," Trask stepped forward with a hand outstretched. "It is an honor and a pleasure to meet you. Perhaps you recall... well I see at least one of you remembers Kerlek." Trask paused in amusement as Phlox stepped forward eagerly and began firing off a rapid stream of Vulcan technical terms at his colleague. Kerlek's eyes lit up and he started returning fire at equal speed and volume. Both of them seemed to have forgotten the existence of everyone else in the room.

Archer cleared his throat pointedly, to no avail. He glanced over at Malcolm, who shrugged and shook his head. Hoshi heaved an exaggerated sigh and stepped forward. She stepped up and poked Phlox sharply on the shoulder.

"Doctor!" He halted in mid-gab and turned to look at her. Then, suddenly realizing where they were, both medical men looked abashed. Hoshi grinned, "We are going to be here a few days. Maybe you two could pick this up a little bit later?" she suggested with a grin.

Phlox stammered a bit, "Certainly. By all means. I apologize for interrupting the proceedings. Please carry on." Hoshi stepped back and pressed her lips together as tightly as she possibly could. A quick glance showed Malcolm had a firm grip on his tongue between his teeth. Both hands were folded behind his back in an 'at ease' position, but his knuckles were clenched white with strain as he fought to keep in the laughter.

"Ahem," Trask resumed while scratching his nose with a fingertip. He turned to the officer beside him, who had stood quietly watching the proceedings with careful eyes. "This gentleman is Vice-Admiral Jendaro, Chief of Starfleet Operations here on Vulcan. I am afraid that he and I are in a bit of a tug of war for your time and attention, Captain. I am all afire to start our discussions, as I am sure you can imagine. But on the other hand, Admiral Jendaro is equally eager to debrief you on the successful completion of your mission to uncover the Terra Prime spies aboard your ship. I am open to suggestions on the best way to expedite things."

Captain Archer grimaced. "Truthfully, my Executive Officer here, Lieutenant Commander Reed, did most of the planning and execution for the operation. In essence all I did was nod approvingly and sign whatever he handed me."

"That's the best way to lead, I have found," Jendaro offered quietly. "Pick good people, tell them what you want done, then get out of their way."

"Our Communications Officer, Ensign Sato, handled all coordination between Enterprise and the Vulcan Security Directorate," Archer went on. "Between the two of them they can tell you as much as I can. In fact, they can tell you more than I can since they were aware of all the little details that never got included in the reports."

Jendaro nodded. "Then with your permission, Captain, how would it be if I kidnap your two officers for a couple of hours while you and the ambassador get started on your strategic planning? Meanwhile I understand that our medical men have an appointment at the University Medical Center?" He gave Kerlek an inquiring look.

"Yes," the Vulcan told them. "Lady T'Pol is scheduled to meet us there with her child as soon as Doctor Phlox arrived. This is intended to be a routine examination and should not require more than an hour at most."

"Yeah, T'Pol told me," Archer acknowledged. "Then she invited us all to come visit her at her-" he stopped and looked puzzled. "I am not sure what the relationship is. Eldest Mother is the title she used. Whatever that means. Anyway T'Pol is staying at her house while Trip is off gallivanting in the desert, and we are invited to join them for the evening meal."

Kerlek's eyes flickered but he said nothing. The two medical men headed out the door, apparently picking up their esoteric debate where they had left off. But only they and any supernatural beings in the vicinity knew for sure. Jendaro promptly shooed his captives down the hallway to a nearby conference room for an extended term of durance vile, while Trask escorted Archer back to the embassy's V.I.P. meeting room.

The ambassador waved Archer into a much padded swivel chair at a polished oak table and started pouring drinks. "We are going to be limited in what we can accomplish for the time being, Captain, since one of our main players is temporarily out of the game."

"Yes, Mr. Ambassador, I am afraid that is correct," Captain Archer reported glumly. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "It seems that Commander Tucker is engaged in some sort of Vulcan ritual that requires him to be out of contact for the next few days. I attempted to explain to him and to T'Pol the importance of this meeting-"

"Don't worry about it, Captain," Trask waved a casual hand. "I spoke to Chief Minister T'Pau this morning. What Commander Tucker is doing is called the Kahs-Wahn, and it's the final remaining requirement before he can apply for dual citizenship. I believe the advantages of having a Human member of Starfleet who is also a citizen of Vulcan outweigh any momentary inconveniences, don't you?"

" Kahs-Wahn?" Archer's face screwed up in thought. "That seems familiar. I know what that is. Either from... now I remember." He looked surprised. "T'Pol mentioned it once. A survival ordeal. Ten days alone in the Forge without food, water, or weapons. Trip is doing _that_?" He looked appalled. "Mr. Ambassador, I have been in the Forge. The heat is murderous in there. And Trip doesn't exactly have an affinity for deserts anyway. There is no way he can survive in there." Archer stood up. "We have to send in a rescue team right away! If it's not already too late."

"Relax, Captain," Trask gestured with his glass of ale. "I am certain everything is under control. The Vulcans have been doing this for centuries. They are not going to let anything bad happen."

"With all due respect, Mr. Ambassador, you don't know Trip," Archer said urgently. He planted his hands flat on the conference table and leaned over. "Trip goes with hot weather the way Klingons go with toothbrushes. We have to get him out of there!"

"Sit. Down. Captain." Trask nailed him with a laser pointed stare and Archer reluctantly sank back into his chair. "You really should finish your ale while it is still properly chilled," the ambassador went on in a more cheerful tone. "By the way, I can't thank you enough for bringing down a case of the Azure blend. It's the Andorian equivalent of Dom Perignon. Truly superb."

Archer gritted his teeth. "I am glad you like it, Sir. But I am sure Trip would trade a barrel of it for a glass of water right now."

"He has water, Captain," Trask told him mildly. "T'Pau assured me that allowances were made for the fact that Trip is Human. After all," he went on as the panic on Archer's face started to subside, "this is supposed to be a survival test. Not a test to destruction."

"Even so, Ambassador," the captain protested, "Trip can't possibly carry enough water to keep him alive in the Forge for ten days."

"He won't need to," Trask told him with a touch of impatience. "The Kahs-Wahn is designed to follow a pre-set course that intersects a series of known waterholes. Or maybe they are springs, or wells or something. I didn't bother to inquire. Anyway they are watering spots. All Commander Tucker has to do is walk from one source of water to another, and show sense enough not to step into any holes or Sehlat mouths along the way. Think he might be capable of accomplishing that much, Captain?" Trask asked wryly.

Archer ran his hand down his face and let out a heavy breath. "I guess so," he finally allowed. "But I will feel a lot better when I see him walk out of there."

&

"I am grateful for your companionship, Eldest Mother," T'Pol murmured as they walked along the hallway toward Kerlek's office.

"Nonsense, Daughter," T'Para waved it off impatiently. "I want to meet this Denobulan doctor that has earned such esteem from both you and Trip. Besides, if I did not come with you what would I be doing instead? I would be sitting at my home wondering what was happening here. Coming along to see for myself was the only logical course of action."

T'Pol's lips twitched imperceptibly. "Of course, Eldest Mother," she replied. "Healer Kerlek's office is behind the next door." T'Pol shifted her sleeping bundle to one arm and reached out for the door plate.

"T'Lissa Tucker," she announced. A slight click sounded and the door slid open.

They entered the waiting area that T'Pol remembered from T'Lissa's last examination. The exam she had undergone the day of the Gathering...

T'Pol embraced the initial stages of the Kohlinahr disciplines to control her wayward memories. There was no point in dwelling on that. It was done, and they were well advanced toward dealing with the repercussions of what happened that day. Besides, the issues that had come to light during Trip's confrontation with Koss needed to be dealt with eventually in any case. The fact that Trip had pulled a bowie knife and threatened to carve Koss a second mouth merely exacerbated the situation somewhat.

They barely seated themselves before the inner door opened to emit a huge smile with a brisk Denobulan attached.

"T'Pol. It's wonderful to see you again." Phlox held out his hands in sheer reflex, then hesitated. T'Pol reached over with her one hand that was not full of limp offspring and met his clasp. Phlox grinned and squeezed her hand very lightly then let go. "And here she is again. My favorite little patient. Oh my, look how fast she is growing. May I?" Phlox reached over and relieved T'Pol of her burden, causing the aforementioned bundle to stir grouchfully and emit a tiny snarl of irritation.

"Oh now, see here young lady," Phlox crooned happily. "Is that any way to greet one of your oldest friends? Hm?" He ran his finger over her cheek and watched her eyes flutter open.

T'Para stepped up beside T'Pol and watched with careful assessment as this alien male handled her descendant. He seemed somewhat experienced with infants, at least there appeared no immediate danger that he would drop her. T'Pol was obviously still alert in any case so the child was safe enough for now.

Phlox glanced up and found himself being scanned by high intensity sensors. "Excuse me, where are my manners? I deduce that you are Lady T'Para? I am Dr. Phlox, and deeply honored to meet you madam."

T'Para's nostrils twitched. She offered the salute and intoned, "Peace and long life to you, Dr. Phlox. It is agreeable to meet you as well."

Formalities out of the way, Phlox returned his attention to T'Lissa. The baby was starting to corkscrew and fishtail her way into wakefulness and venting her dissatisfaction with the process. T'Pol put her hand on her daughter's cheek and the little one settled down a bit. Suddenly her squinched eyes popped open and she looked around, realizing that she wasn't in her mother's arms anymore. A bellow of outrage signaled her opinion of the change in venue. T'Pol quickly rectified the situation, which mollified T'Lissa and persuaded her to turn off the Tactical Alert siren.

"Well, Kerlek is waiting for us in the examination room with all of her records," Phlox suggested. T'Para nodded approvingly. Logical. They could deal with the child's needs, discuss the matter of transferring responsibility for her care in private, and proceed with her examination all at the same time. Phlox led the way, followed by T'Pol with the baby. T'Para brought up the rear, carefully examining everything in the office as she passed by.

Contrary to Phlox's prediction however, the exam room was empty when they arrived. "He must have gone after his new assistant," Phlox mentioned. T'Pol straightened and shot him a look of distress.

"Assistant?" she complained. "Doctor, this is not acceptable. Adding another person to the list of people who are aware of T'Lissa is most unwise."

"He is not, and he will not be." Kerlek stepped into the room carrying a stack of PADDs and data cartridges. With both hands full he could not perform the salute, but he offered both women a slight bow. "Peace and long life to you both, T'Para and T'Pol. Be at ease regarding Sessek. As far as he is aware, T'Lissa is merely a Vulcan child that you have adopted. But since I have no logical reason to bar him from performing his normal duty of assisting me with a routine examination, I decided that it would be less suspicious to simply let him attend."

"Your 'new' assistant, Healer Kerlek?" T'Para's voice had a faint edge to it. Just barely enough to peel the top couple of layers from a man's katra. "I find the timing disquieting. How new is this assistant?"

"I assure you, Elder, there is nothing sinister involved," Kerlek said soberly. "Sessek has been working at the Medical Center for the past year. He was only transferred to my office two days ago, when my previous assistant was killed in an unfortunate accident."

"Then I am certain that you will have no objection when I ask Ganlas to conduct a background check on him." T'Para declared.

"Of course not." Kerlek wasn't about to argue. He meekly handed Phlox the pile in his hands and went to wash up while T'Pol finished T'Lissa's diaper change.

"I will look this over later," Phlox said to no one in particular. "Meanwhile, let's see how my little cohort in mischief in doing these days." T'Lissa, much improved in mood after getting completely awake and dried off, finally managed to recognize him. A piercing squeal of joy stabbed everyone in the ear and she lunged for his ridges with all three of her teeth bared. Phlox laughed and held her back. "So now the truth finally comes out," he teased. "You just love me for my pretty face."

Phlox started running a scanner over the baby, pausing at random intervals to tickle her briefly. Meanwhile the Vulcans stood around in a circle, watching with all the solemn intensity of a group of scientists observing the test firing of a new torpedo. The door to Kerlek's exam room opened and a young Vulcan male entered. T'Para saw him glance over the assembled crowd, paying particular attention to T'Pol.

Kerlek instructed, "Sessek, retrieve the sonic emitter attachment for Dr. Phlox. Then prepare the microbial delineation unit for the fluid samples." The young man nodded without speaking and went to work. T'Pol never bothered to lift her gaze from her child.

T'Para glanced back and forth from the baby's examination to watch Sessek. The young man seemed oddly tense. Perhaps it was merely the presence of an alien physician. Most Vulcans were not truly comfortable near outworlders.

Finally Phlox was done. He straightened and told them, "She seems healthy as a Denobulan Likho after spring molt. You and Kerlek have obviously been taking excellent care of her."

T'Pol let her relief shine through. "It is gratifying to hear that, Doctor. Will you be joining us for the evening meal?"

"I am tempted, truly tempted," Phlox declared. "But," he glanced over at Kerlek, "I am even more tempted to seize the chance to catch up with Kerlek about our research project. We are on the track of some remarkably fascinating results. I have been chewing my knuckles in frustration all the way from Earth, and I honestly cannot bear the suspense any longer."

"Indeed," Kerlek retorted, "I am equally eager to discuss our results. I have studied the information that you sent, and it matches my results to a remarkable degree. I believe that you may have provided the missing explanation as to why we are finding the results that we are."

"In that case, I understand," T'Pol told them graciously. "If Trip or I can be of further assistance with your research, do not hesitate to call upon us."

"Most generous, T'Pol. Most generous, and we may yet take you up on that," Phlox told her happily. "Kerlek?" he turned and gathered up the data cartridges and PADDS. "Shall we retire somewhere and start comparing notes? Your lab or mine?"

"Mine is closer," Kerlek pointed out. "Sessek can finish up here and put things away."

"Certainly, Healer Kerlek," Sessek told him, speaking for the first time. T'Pol's head jerked up in surprise. T'Para, watching, saw T'Pol's eyes lock onto the young man and freeze there. The two physicians walked out of the examination room, leaving T'Para to divide her attention between soothing the baby and watching T'Pol stare in shock at the young assistant.

The young man finished putting away the examination instruments and turned back to face the women. He noticed T'Pol's attention and raised one eyebrow. "Is something wrong, Lady T'Pol?" he inquired coolly.

"I am uncertain," T'Pol replied slowly. "You seem to bear a truly remarkable resemblance to someone I once knew. Even your voice and mannerisms are identical. I cannot help but be intrigued by this... apparent... coincidence."

"Perhaps a distant relative," the young man suggested. "I have noticed that such things do have a tendency to repeat themselves in families."

T'Pol blinked. "I suppose that is not absolutely impossible," she allowed. "However, I would not have expected such a perfect duplication." She glanced over at T'Lissa and shook her head uncertainly, then looked back at the young man. Who finally couldn't stand it any longer and broke up completely.

"I am sorry, Grandmother," he gasped between hiccups of laughter. "But I absolutely could not resist. The expression on your face was priceless. If only I had been recording it, T'Prell would have bought me the biggest lobster in Shi'Kahr for a copy of that picture!" He collapsed across the examination table in a fit of snickers.

T'Para raised _both_ eyebrows a tiny fraction while T'Pol's mouth tightened. "George Hopkins," she said firmly. "Such behavior is most unseemly, given the circumstances."

George took a deep breath and straightened up. "You are quite correct, Grandmother. Erm, Great-grandmother I mean. Or rather, Great-great-, no. How many greats is it anyway? Let me stop and think a minute. It gets complicated on my side of the family you see, because our line split and then rejoined, so the Human generations outnumber the Vulcan generations."

"There is no reason to become overly meticulous," T'Pol sighed impatiently, looking nervously at T'Para. The Eldest Mother was holding her chin in one hand, while tapping her lower lip with her finger in a manner that made T'Pol's blood chill.

"Okay," George grinned again. "How about you call me George and I will just call you Granny."

"I think not," T'Pol replied promptly. "T'Pol will suffice. Now, before we go any further, allow me to perform introductions. Dr. George Hopkins, this is T'Para, Eldest Mother of our clan."

George stiffened like an electro-shocked cat. "T'Para?" he choked. "I didn't realize-" He swallowed hard. "I implore forgiveness for my inappropriate behavior, Eldest Mother." George stepped across the room and knelt in front of T'Para with his head bowed, raising his arms to offer her the crossed greeting of kinship.

T'Para looked down for a few breaths, then reached to touch his fingertips. Her eyes narrowed when she recognized him as blood kin. She ordered him in formal High Vulcan, {"Stand, Son of my Clan. Explain thy presence, thy unseemly behavior, and thy mode of address to T'Pol."}

George rose and told her, "That will require some time, Eldest Mother. There are also important family matters that should be discussed in a place of greater privacy." He looked at T'Pol. "In retrospect, I shouldn't have revealed myself this way. You know this isn't my normal line of work. When Daniels reads my report he's likely to smack me upside the head with the nearest blunt object." He grinned. "But it was still worth it to see your face. I can't wait to hear what Grandfather has to say."

"I would not be overly sanguine, were I in your place," T'Pol warned him. "I am not certain that he has forgiven you for the ducks yet."

"I anticipate a fascinating discussion when we return home," T'Para remarked. "Let us proceed."

&

Harris tugged on his lower lip and stared out the window of his tiny office. Actually it wasn't a window, since his office officially did not exist on the building plans. Only a meticulous series of measurements taken between the third floor janitorial storage area, and the rear emergency stairwell, would have revealed the presence of anomalous distance between a few main support beams. Even that could be explained by "as-built" modifications to the construction specs due to encountering a small pocket of unexpected sandstone during construction of the building.

The external sensors were currently set to give him a view of the grounds outside Starfleet headquarters. The sky was unexpectedly clear today, in defiance of the weather reports. "_They lie more than we do," _Harris thought in amusement. A soft tone brought him around to face the screen of his terminal. A second later and the face of his Enterprise operative appeared.

"Prompt as ever," Harris remarked with a friendly smile.

"_Shitcan the small talk, Harris,"_ the old man replied. "_I don't have any time to waste. I have to get back to work in seven minutes or someone will come looking for me."_

Harris dropped his casual facade and obediently got down to business. "Give me a quick sit-rep."

"_Trip is in the Forge on the Kahs-Wahn survival test. Nordstrom reported this morning that two teams are in place shadowing him. Should be no problem. The boy isn't an idiot. He travels only by night, and paces himself. Goes to ground early and doesn't leave his hole until well after sunset. Conserves his water. Even found an unmarked seep on his own. He should make it on time."_

"What about those electromagnetic traps in there?" Harris wanted to know.

"_The Sandfires don't come this time of year." _

"Not those," Harris snapped impatiently, "The other ones. Those areas that you can't go into wearing metal."

"_Oh, those. Our boys are carrying carbon-silicate blades and hydrocarbon polymer projectile throwers, with darts that carry Le-Matya venom."_

"Good enough," Harris nodded. "Go on."

"_Jon is down on the surface yapping with Trask. All they are going to accomplish is draining some Andorian ale, since T'Pol isn't going to do squat until Trip gets back and they know it. Without T'Pol, the Vulcans are stone cold."_

"_Rinaldo reports heavy subspace traffic between the Andorian embassy and their home world. Mainly scheming about using this tech swap to drive a wedge between Earth and Vulcan. Juarez reports Soval is trying to set up a three way with Trask and Kilruym. Sounds like he wants to spike some guns." _

Harris scowled. "That's the last thing we need," he muttered. "Soval is the only Vulcan the Andorians might listen to."

"_You want him out of the way?"_

"Unfortunately that's not an option, although it would make life so much simpler for all of us," Harris pronounced regretfully. "Did you get an update on this crap with V'Rald?"

"_T'Pau is setting some kind of trap for the bastard. That is the most devious young broad I have ever run into. She's got a mind like a sack full of night crawlers. Give her a hundred years and she will be a holy terror. I wouldn't worry about V'Rald. His nuts are in a vice, whether he knows it or not."_

"Good," Harris said. "Colonel, we-"

"_Shut up."_

Harris paused in mid word. "Sorry. I wasn't trying to needle you. Old habits die hard." He pronounced the name with some emphasis, "Ezekiel. We need a way to neutralize Soval without getting terminal. Look around and see what you can come up with on that end. I will try to find something that will drag his ass back here and distract him. One way or the other, we can't let the Vulcans knock us out of this. Did you see the last reports from the Tellarite frontier?"

"_Yeah." _ There was a silent pause. "_Not looking too promising."_

"No," Harris rubbed his tired eyes. "It's not. We are trying to steer the Klingons and the Romulans toward each other, but we don't have much to work with. And the Vulcans are worse than useless for this kind of thing. The Tellarites are giving us a little to work with, but not much. We are going to need the best ships and guns we can get, as quick as we can get them."

&

Trip caught a blissful five hours of cool comfortable sleep, curled up like a puppy on the soft dirt next to his drip. When he woke up his canteen was running over and sitting in a puddle of clear water, half submerged in the blanket lined basin he had scooped. Trip sighed happily in the pre-dawn dimness, screwed on the cap and triumphantly lifted out his 4 liter canteen by its shoulder straps. Then he bent over and started drinking like a fish.

Before the day was half over, Trip had valid cause to be glad he had gotten those five hours of sleep. Every mobile creature in the forge apparently smelled the water and decided to come investigate. Dorloths came calling, literally by the score. Trip killed spider scorpions until the stench made him nauseous. He finally decided to stop for fear that the that the next wave would be able to climb the pile of dead ones and surmount his barricade.

K'Bets came sniffing, in brief and timid scuttles. Trip just didn't have the heart to nail them. He never did manage to finish off the other half of their cousin, flinging the stringy handful of green meat through the cave mouth, well off into the distance.

The Corla, pack hunting scavenger lizards the size of Porthos, came hissing up to the entrance with their tongues flickering. A shout sent them packing though. Trip didn't mind most of the vertebrate visitors.

The bugs were a different matter. The Dorloths he could keep out. The Tregth he couldn't. Tiny little beige fliers that served the same function for Vulcan plants that bees and wasps served on Earth. Naturally, they came looking for water. Trip didn't begrudge them the water. But unlike Terran flower pollinators, the Tregth were omnivorous. They would take either nectar or blood, whichever was available. That was where Trip drew the line.

The battle was short but furious. Trip finally withdrew to the far end of the passage and sat down in disgruntlement while the Tregth helped themselves to his pool. Eventually they left and, to his astonishment, stayed gone. Apparently one drink was enough to satisfy them.

Between negotiating water rights with the natives, Trip concentrated on absorbing as much fluid as his tissues could hold. He dutifully added the salt and mineral tablets to his canteen as T'Pol instructed. He also munched a couple of tablets by themselves. They tasted surprisingly good. Finally sunset came and it was time to leave. Trip surprised himself by feeling a twinge of regret at leaving this little fortress. The last thing he did before leaving was to scratch his name and the date on the rock wall beside the drip. Just in case he didn't make it back, at least someone would know that he had found it first.

With his belly full of water, Trip decided to spend the first part of the night at a brisk walk. Even in the cold Vulcan night it didn't take long for thirst to return, but he stubbornly paced himself. He had to be no more than ten kilometers, maximum, from the first checkpoint. Even over rugged terrain he could do ten kilometers at a brisk walk in one night, surely.

As soon as Tucker passed out of sight, two figures emerged from cover and came together. They spoke quietly for a few seconds, then one of them stepped into the small cave. A light flicked on briefly, then off again. The figure emerged and rejoined the first figure. The two of them set off along Trip's trail. Neither of them glanced up toward the hill on their right flank.

The prone figure lowered his binoculars thoughtfully. He picked up a long, oddly shaped object and began moving in a direction parallel to, but offset from, the trail left by the two that were following Tucker. As he passed a narrow gap he raised his arm and lowered it, twice.

As the night wore on Trip started to get tense. "_Did I screw up the directions?" _ he wondered. "_How could I have possibly screwed up the directions? They were designed to be so simple a child could follow them."_ He went over them again. Straight north until you reach the chert formation with the carving of a lirpa. Check. Did that. Veer northwest until you see the hilltop that resembles a crouching Sehlat. Check. Follow the ravine just west of the hill until you reach plain, then follow the cliffs eastward to the first check point. Well, here he was at the cliffs. So where was the checkpoint?

It was almost dawn and he had not made it to ground yet. Fear was starting to build. "_Shit. I'm thinking like a vampire or something,"_ Trip groused to himself. But he continued to make frequent glances at the glowing eastern horizon as he jogged along the base of the cliff. So where was it? Could he have overshot the thing?

Something moving caught the early morning light and Trip almost collapsed in relief. A blood green banner hung out from the side of the cliff wall, marking the site of the first checkpoint less than 200 meters ahead of him. Relief made him stagger. Trip stopped to breathe a minute and take a sip of water. Then he straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. He began strolling toward the checkpoint as if he were coming back home after a pleasant afternoon picnic.

Two Vulcan priests were attending the spring. They were alone, no doubt the youngsters had already come and gone. The rules of the Kahs-Wahn forbade speaking, but nothing was specified about generic noise. Trip glanced at the two males, one ancient and the other middle aged, smiled and started cheerfully whistling "When Johnny Comes Marching Home". Eyebrows levitated as he strutted over to the covered artesian well.

Trip sat down with a satisfied sigh and raised his canteen. He ostentatiously lifted his canteen and spent an unnecessary number of swigs emptying the container. Then he set the canteen under the spigot and refilled it while the Vulcans watched in surprised respect.

Trip stood up, walked over to the bin containing the marker disks, and withdrew the medallion that would prove he had completed the first of the seven stages of his ordeal. Then he turned toward the cliff and located a nice deep ledge. Crawling under it, he stretched out and dropped into exhausted sleep in seconds.

(Continued in Chapter 2)


	2. Chapter 2

**Purgatory – Chapter 2 **

**By Blackn'blue (aka Bluenblack) **

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Star Trek. I wrote this for fun. Feel free to download, copy or pass this around. Just don't sell it. If I can't make any money from this, nobody else gets to either.

**Description:** This is the fourth story in my series that began with "For Want of A Nail" and continued with "In the Cold of the Night" and "Father to the Man". I suggest reading those before tackling this one. Otherwise many of the references won't make any sense.

This chapter, and the previous chapter along with Introduction, were originally submitted to in smaller chunks from March through June of 2007.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Ganlas met them at the front gate to T'Para's home, offering respectful nods to the ladies and a curious inspection to the newcomer.

T'Para imperiously announced, "Commander Ganlas, this is Healer-In-Training Sessek, also a Son of our Clan. He is here at my invitation. His presence is not to be revealed to anyone at all for any reason."

"Understood, Eldest," Ganlas bowed in submission. "Welcome, Krei Sessek," Ganlas offered the salute. "It is always agreeable to meet another member of the family."

"I offer greetings to you, Ganlas," Sessek responded. "Your reputation is most impressive. I am honored to meet one of your distinction."

"Now that decorum has been satisfied," T'Para said shortly, striding toward her front door, "I await your report, Grandson."

Ganlas glanced at T'Pol and Sessek, then evidently decided that if the Eldest Mother wanted things kept confidential, she would inform him of that fact. "We have confirmed the earlier news of two Terra Prime agents aboard Enterprise. Both have been neutralized. One of them was captured during a joint effort involving the Security Directorate and Starfleet personnel. The other member of Terra Prime was apparently killed by his partner to prevent his revealing himself to Captain Archer. Or at least, that is the Human's working theory."

T'Pol's face tightened. "Do you have identification on the Terra Prime members?" she asked quietly.

"Unfortunately not yet," Ganlas reported. "We anticipate obtaining that information shortly. If you wish, I can pass it along to you as soon as we confirm the accuracy of our report."

"Yes," T'Pol's nostrils flared and her eyes darkened. "Trip will want to know." She closed her eyes and suppressed a shudder. "It is most disturbing to realize that one has served so long, and survived so many common dangers, in company with someone who considered you a hated enemy."

Ganlas regarded her soberly as T'Pol settled herself on the bench, spreading out T'Lissa's pad on the floor in front of her and situating the baby in a comfortable napping position. "If it might help to restore some harmony, I can tell you this. Both of the Security agents that were assigned to Enterprise made particular note of the vehemence with which the Humans conducted the search for the traitors. They said that the Starfleet officers seemed to consider the existence of the Terra Prime agents as a personal affront."

Sessek had been quietly fading into the background up to this point, propped up against a back wall and listening with bright-eyed interest. But now he offered carefully, "I have noted that Humans place a high value on personal loyalty. The loyalty of a Human is difficult to earn. Perhaps because of this, once it is earned they guard it as something most precious. To a Human, betrayal of a battle comrade is considered equivalent to betrayal of family. An despicable offense."

"Indeed," T'Pol sent him a warm look tinged with hidden affection. "I have learned this much... Sessek. My primary concern is the effect that this will have on Trip. He was devastated when he learned that Ensign Massaro, one of his own men, was the initial source of the Terra Prime involvement. When he realizes that two more of his shipmates were also planning to betray us, I confess to uneasiness regarding his reaction."

"Is it necessary to tell him at all?" Ganlas innocently inquired.

"Yes," T'Pol and T'Para snapped out simultaneously. Ganlas looked taken aback at this double-barreled assault. "Yes, it is," T'Pol continued more gently. "Trip and I have suffered issues in the past due to my misguided efforts at protecting him by withholding information. Invariably, this has resulted in more problems that it solved. I no longer keep secrets from my bondmate. None."

&

The sun woke him. A slow burn started to penetrate through Trip's closed eyelids, getting brighter and more painful minute by minute. He stirred and squinted, mumbling uncomfortably. Then he threw a forearm across his face and took a deep breath. The blast furnace temperature of the air seared its way across his tongue and tore the lining of Trip's windpipe on its way down. He coughed and sat up, shaking his head. The ledge he had picked the night before wasn't quite as well sheltered as he had thought.

The sun wasn't completely up yet, but already the light was blindingly bright, even through Trip's tightly closed eyes. The heat pounded against him like angry fists, jealously resentful of this alien interloper. Trip fought his way up against the powerful drag of Vulcan's remorseless gravity and hooked his precious water supply over one shoulder. The banner marking the artesian spring hung limp in the dawn stillness.

Both of the Vulcan priests squatted comfortably beneath an awning, munching what looked like fruit snack bars and sipping something juice colored. Trip briefly considered murder, but regretfully put the idea aside. He just wasn't familiar enough with the territory to hide the bodies effectively. He sighed and scanned the cliff, looking for a better hole to crawl into for the day.

He needed something up on the wall of the cliff. The climbing Le'Matyas were nocturnal. Unfortunately the land bound Sehlats were diurnal, and quite frisky at this time of year. Especially the males, as they skirted the edges of each other's territories looking for feminine companionship. Trip scanned the hard packed dirt of the plain along the base of the cliff. No obvious tracks, but that meant nothing. Smokey the saber-tooth bear could amble along at any time, and Trip wanted to be in a position to look down his nose when it happened.

Nothing looked greatly appealing at first glance. But one fairly wide shelf had an overhang where Trip might be able to hang his emergency blanket to make an improvised lean-to. At least he would be in shade. He took a careful sip of water and realized that his lips were already cracked. No reason to let that happen, he would be sitting next to the spring all day after all. Trip filled his mouth with cool water and swallowed gratefully. The Human embassy doctor's admonitions rang in his ears.

"_You are going to dehydrate almost instantly out there. No help for it, the Human body was just not designed to withstand those conditions. When you do reach a water source, spend some time recharging your tissues. I don't care if it costs you an extra hour or two. Do it anyway. Sit down and drink, and keep drinking. Don't just stop when you are no longer thirsty. Wait a while after that, and then drink some more. Drink until the thought of more water is actually unpleasant. You want your tissues to be saturated to maximum before you set out again."_

"Okay, okay, I get it. Quit nagging me," Trip muttered. He felt a little bit light headed and tried to blink away the spots that were forming in front of his eyes. "Better get under cover boy," he told himself. "This frying pan is startin' to sizzle." It was 150 paces east and ten meters up to reach the ledge that Trip had spotted earlier. It took him the better part of 20 minutes to get there. Each step was slower than the one before. Finally he made it to the ledge and crawled onto solid rock. It felt like the side of Enterprise's warp core when the coolant flow was starting to clog. That was the only thing that kept Trip from collapsing on his face.

Instead, he dragged himself up and unfolded the emergency blanket. Holding it up in front of himself, stretched between his arms like a curtain, Trip walked forward until the overhang pressed against his chest. He spread the edge of the blanket across the top of the overhang and grabbed some scalding stones to spread across the material, anchoring it in place. It would never hold against a serious wind, but since this was the calm season it might work. When he finished the blanket dangled off the ledge like a shower curtain, with a small opening at each end for air flow.

"_My survival training instructor would not be amused," _ Trip thought, "_but I don't give a rat's ass." _He crawled under the makeshift excuse for a shelter and slumped gratefully against the inner wall, gasping for air. It took all his remaining strength to painfully wrench loose the lid from his canteen and hoist it up to his mouth. The first swallow hit his mouth like frozen champagne, coating his tongue and throat with indescribable ecstasy.

&

"I certainly agree." George/Sessek said emphatically, "It would be best if I made a discreet withdrawal before your guests arrive."

"Yes," T'Para nodded. "Ganlas can be trusted absolutely. But it strains credulity to suppose that none of these Humans would mention your presence to Phlox, who would certainly pass it along to Kerlek."

"In which case," T'Pol told him firmly, "an explanation would be most timely."

George rubbed his chin and shot his glance from one woman to the other. "Has, um, how much has Eldest Mother T'Para been informed about the temporal aspect of things?" he asked delicately.

"Sit, Young Man," T'Para pointed imperiously at a chair. George obediently sank down and T'Para continued, "T'Pol has informed me of Mr. Daniels, and his claims regarding a Temporal Cold War. She has related her own experiences in apparent temporal displacement. As a tentative working theory, I am willing to entertain the possibility that the Science Directorate may have been mistaken in this matter when it declared time travel inherently impossible. From your earlier form of address, I conclude that you claim to be a descendant of T'Pol and Trip?"

"Yes, Eldest," George told her humbly. "That is correct."

"I also conclude that the two of you are acquainted." It was not a question, but both of them murmured quiet assents. "T'Pol, describe the circumstances of your prior meeting. Be concise but complete. You have five minutes."

She flinched but began talking with economical precision. George sat open mouthed and listened in amazement while T'Pol presented a straightforward, abbreviated but essentially intact account of T'Lissa's medical problem and cure. She finished in four minutes and 21 seconds. No one spoke while T'Para digested the new data.

"Is T'Lissa in need of additional medical attention?" the old lady asked. George shook his head.

"No," he replied reassuringly. "While Kerlek and Phlox were examining her I took a few surreptitious scans myself. She's healthy as a little horse." He grinned, then quickly wiped off the expression when he saw T'Para lift the Eyebrow of Ancestral Disapproval. George glanced at the baby, who had just started to squirm her way into action on the mat. "I am here for another reason. Actually several other reasons."

"Specify," T'Pol instructed him tersely. She reached down protectively and put her hand on the baby unconsciously.

"It has to do with, um," George coughed into his fist self-consciously. "Koss." T'Pol closed her eyes in pain.

"What precisely is that young man planning to do that requires Temporal intervention?" T'Para demanded.

"It isn't just Koss," George explained. "It is the entire situation that was set in motion when Grandfather Tucker confronted him at the Gathering. It has... the Human term for it is 'snowballed'. Each event has triggered other events that have, in turn, triggered additional events. It has now reached the point where the future course of civilization in the Quadrant is affected."

"And you have been sent here to correct this?" T'Para asked.

"Partly. There are some other Temporal agents in place acting to derail the worst of the distortions also. Mostly I have been sent here to prevent V'Rald from murdering Grandfather Tucker," George told her.

T'Pol lunged to her feet with blazing eyes. "When? How?" She snarled like a leopard defending her cubs. George noted the glittering eyes and flushed ear tips, and decided that a meek tone was called for.

"It won't be for several days yet," he told her. "I have been keeping close tabs on the situation, of course. When the time is right I will move into position well in advance of the event. V'Rald's agent won't have a chance to get close."

"Compose yourself, Daughter," T'Para admonished her. To George she said, "Several days? He plans to ambush Trip while he is on his Kahs-Wahn then?"

"Yep," George confirmed. "The idea being that his agents will strike while Grandfather is deep inside the Forge and make it look like an animal attack. They are following Grandfather now, even as we speak." T'Pol jerked and George jumped to add, "Unfortunately for them, Human Security forces are already in place and guarding Grandfather."

T'Para blinked. "Let me be certain I understand. Trip is working his way through the Forge on what is supposed to be his solitary survival test. Meanwhile a group of assassins is trailing him, hoping to find an opportunity to strike, while another group of Human Security guards are also following him and watching the assassins? How is it that the thunder of their passing, and the clouds of dust they raise, have not roused every wild creature in the area?"

"There aren't really that many of them," George told her. "V'Rald sent two agents, and the Humans sent two teams consisting of three men each. All of them are experienced professionals. And they, like Grandfather, are moving exclusively at night."

"Six Human guards were not sufficient to stop them?" T'Pol demanded angrily. Her color was deepening from pale olive to deep sea green. George hesitated, uncertain whether to continue.

"Daughter!" T'Para snapped sharply. "You are on the verge of losing control again. Center yourself at once. Begin the disciplines as I taught you. Now!" T'Pol looked startled and turned to face the Eldest Mother. Suddenly she shivered and closed her eyes. Her breathing changed, settling into a steady rhythm for time. When she opened her eyes again, they were clear.

In a lower voice that mimicked perfect calm, T'Pol requested, "Please explain to me how two assassins were able to bypass six guards."

"By being Vulcans in the Forge," George shrugged. "Had it been a case of the setting being northern Siberia in mid-winter, or the Amazon basin in the rainy season, the outcome would no doubt have been different. Actually the Vulcans are going to fail several times before they make their final attempt, so the Humans are not completely inept. They are simply at a lethal disadvantage."

"As is Trip," T'Pol's voice held the barest hint of a quaver.

"That's why I'm here, Grandmother," George said quietly.

"Why _are_ you here, Son of my Clan?" T'Para wanted to know. "You are a Healer, not a Security agent. What prompted your superiors to assign this duty to you?"

George sighed and raked a fingernail through one eyebrow. "Several things, Eldest. For one thing, the Temporal Authority doesn't have many Vulcan operatives." He glanced up at T'Para, then shifted his eyes over to T'Pol. "Most Vulcans find temporal displacement unnerving in the extreme for various reasons, and the pool of available candidates for this mission was limited. They also had to have someone who could adapt to the time period readily with a believable cover story. As a doctor, I had no problem stepping into place at the University. Most importantly, I could make contact with Grandmother T'Pol without questions over my legitimacy."

T'Pol remembered something. "How long have you been here?"

"About a year now," George told her, returning her look steadily. T'Pol raised an eyebrow.

"What else have you been doing during your time in this century, Son of my House?" she asked him.

George grimaced and shifted uncomfortably on his seat. "Um. Well. You see, Grandmother T'Pol. It's like this. I was given several specific tasks to complete. Each of them are critically important. Each of them must be completed in the required order, at the correct time and in the correct manner for the timeline to be properly reset. If I tell you the full background it might effect your decision making process, which could potentially cause catastrophic results for all of us." He looked sincerely into her eyes. "Please believe me, Grandmother. Of all the people alive today, no one has more of a vested interest in maintaining the well being of this family than I do."

"T'Pol," T'Para said, "Did you not inform me that your alternate was told by Agent Daniels that the timeline had already been reset?" T'Pol murmured agreement. "Why then is it necessary for George to be here now to continue the process?"

George chuckled wryly. "The timeline was reset. Up to the point just before Enterprise launched. It has been more or less restored to something resembling its original configuration right up until the Suliban chased that Klingon to Earth. That's where it gets ragged again. But we can't just go back and delete everything that happened since then. All of the things that occurred since Enterprise launched - your encounters with the Suliban, the destruction of the Paraagan colony, the attack by the Xindi, the defeat of the Sphere Builders, the discovery of the Kirshara... There is no way that we can simply erase all of that. It would destroy any chance of salvaging the future altogether. So we have to cherry pick our way through the next few centuries, tweaking and pruning things to make the major events come out the way they are supposed to. The timeline won't really be back to anything like its original configuration until nearly the 27th century."

"I am not concerned with this," T'Pol said firmly. "Let future centuries deal with their own problems. I am concerned about my adun and my daughter. Why can you not simply eliminate the assassin now?"

"Because I am not a killer, Grandmother," George told her sharply. T'Pol flinched and nodded. "I recognize your sense of urgency, but I dare not move too soon and reveal myself. Besides, I don't want to invalidate Grandfather Trip's Kahs-Wahn. It is important to the timeline that he finish it and be granted Vulcan citizenship. There are several details that are coming together at this time, and they all have to balance together properly. This is a little bit touchy and it has to be done just right. I can't screw this up or I will never be born. And if I am never born, I can't come back in time to repair the genetic damage to T'Lissa. You understand?"

T'Pol gritted her teeth and nodded. "The paradoxes of time travel are extraordinarily distasteful. I can well understand why the Temporal Authority has difficulty recruiting Vulcan agents."

T'Para looked sharply at George and raised her eyebrow thoughtfully. T'Pol was too intensely focused on the danger to her husband to catch the slip George had just made. But T'Para considered it carefully. She repressed a smile with the practice of two long centuries and held her peace. There would be time to discuss such things later. Perhaps.

&

The trio of Starfleet officers exited the silver colored Vulcan subway cube with relief and, at least in Hoshi's case, exasperated impatience. She was just about well and truly fed up. Between Vice-Admiral Jendaro spending three hours grilling them as if they were the suspects instead of the good guys... and then finally escaping only to be subjected to Captain Archer's unending monologue about Ambassador Trask's arrogant attitude... interrupted by Malcolm and the captain going on and on about how foolish Trip was for trying to pass this Vulcan test... a nunnery was starting to look pretty good to Hoshi right about now.

"_Would it kill them to shut up for five minutes?"_ she wondered plaintively. "_Here we are on Vulcan. Neither of them have ever been here before long enough to do any real sightseeing, much less been invited into the residential neighborhoods. We are supposed to be explorers. But are they looking around? Nope. Look at them." _She glanced with disgust at the two men as they climbed the ramp up to ground level with their heads together, muttering complaints.

She stopped and waited at the top of the ramp for them to finish their discussion. And waited. Finally she snapped. "GENTLEMEN!" Their heads whipped around in shock. "May I remind you," Hoshi continued with icy control, "as designated protocol officer for this away mission, that we are in public on Vulcan. As such, continuing such a public display of emotion, much less carrying on such obviously private and personal discussion, is a remarkably distasteful display of bad manners."

The two men at least had the grace to look embarrassed. The three of them fell into step and started heading for nearest street corner, where one of the regularly placed city maps was displayed. Hoshi rolled her eyes and bit down hard on her tongue when they discovered that Captain Archer, experienced pilot and professional explorer, had led them into exiting the subway system one stop too early.

Archer clamped his jaw closed and dared either of them with a look to offer any comments. Malcolm could have given lessons on impassivity to the palace guards at Buckingham. Hoshi batted her eyes and returned her best innocent 'who, me?' look. They confirmed their location in reference to the directions that T'Pol had provided and set off northeastward at a brisk walk.

Half a block later, the brisk walk became a slow walk. By the end of the block, the slow walk became a very slow amble. By the end of the second block, Archer held up his hand and called for a three minute break at a fortuitously placed bench. The other two, with sweat streaming down their faces, did not complain.

"Bloody Hell," Malcolm wheezed. "Trip's been living like this for months, and he's not dead yet? Remind me not to challenge him to a sparring match anytime soon."

"I forgot how hot it really is down here," Archer admitted. "I guess Surak kept me kind of protected while I was carrying him, or something."

"It's the air," Hoshi suggested. "It wouldn't be so bad if we could just breathe."

Malcolm nodded agreement. "Like the top of Mount Everest under a blowtorch."

They moved on carefully, stopping at half block intervals to wheeze and pant. After seven and a half blocks they finally reached the promised land.

"Here we are," Captain Archer announced faintly. "Care to knock, Malcolm?" His executive officer gave him a dirty look but managed to force his arm into lifting the massive hammer. He let it drop against the announcing gong. The bronze colored metal bar boomed and rang like a medieval church bell.

The gate opened almost instantly, revealing the face of a young Vulcan male wearing a look of polite inquiry. "How may I be of service?" he asked in Vulcan. Hoshi stepped forward and introduced them in the same language flawlessly. "Ah," the youngster replied in English. "Of course, Captain Archer, Commander Reed, Lieutenant Sato. Welcome. You are expected. It was not necessary to ring the gong, the button next to the gate latch activates a buzzer. But it was kind of you to respect the old tradition." He stepped back and opened the gate wide, gesturing them to come in.

"I am V'lanos," he told them, "Lady T'Pol is my krei, I believe the closest term in your language would be cousin. Please follow me. T'Pol and Eldest Mother T'Para are waiting inside."

The weary Humans trudged hopefully after the young man, inspired by the thought of sitting down. As they entered the cool shade of the thick walled house, simultaneous sighs of relief blended together to form a harmonious convergence that echoed down the entrance hall, causing T'Para's nostrils to twitch faintly. She sent T'Pol a glance. "It seems that our guests have arrived."

T'Pol started pouring the traditional welcoming cups of water. In allowance of their Human guests, she had replaced the typical pitcher with a large urn full of ice water. The ordinary small porcelain cups were left in the cabinet this time, in favor of tall insulated mugs. Three deep, well padded chairs were arranged in a semi-circle around a low table, facing the couch where three generations of Vulcan ladies waited to offer greeting.

V'lanos led the Humans through the main archway, with Archer in the lead. T'Pol stood to offer the formal salute and perform introductions.

"Charmed, ma'am," Archer sketched a shallow bow toward T'Para.

"Why?" she asked him curiously. "I have made no effort to charm you. And I seriously doubt that a woman of my obvious age and desiccated appearance holds any fascination to a male of your youth."

"Ur...," the captain choked slightly and looked a bit lost.

T'Pol stepped in with, "It is a standard conversational interjection, Eldest. Commonly used when addressing a female to which one has been introduced in a formal setting."

"Remarkable," T'Para tilted her head to regard Malcolm. "Are you charmed as well, young man?"

Malcolm gave a sterling imitation of a man facing a firing squad. "I can only say, Ma'am, that I am dumbstruck with admiration."

T'Para actually snorted. "Trip has spoken of you. I see that he did not exaggerate. And you, child," she looked at Hoshi. "What have you to say for yourself?"

Hoshi let a smile spread over her face. "I say that I want to see that baby again. I haven't had a chance to hold her since T'Pol and Trip left Enterprise. Can I have her please?"

T'Para let her eyes soften and replied. "Sit down girl. All of you sit down before you lose consciousness. Rest and drink your water. Then you may hold her." They obeyed gratefully. Several minutes passed broken only by the sound of gurgling and tinkling ice. T'Lissa roused up at the strange commotion and peered curiously around T'Para's elbow. When she spotted the newcomers her face lit up with gleeful anticipation. Afire with enthusiasm at finding a new audience to enthrall, the elf-eared dynamo lunged head first toward the floor in an effort to meet and greet.

T'Pol twisted and fielded the little unguided missile in mid-leap. Nothing daunted, T'Lissa started working her arms and legs in vigorous crawling motions, like an ATV trying to dig its way over a sandbar. "Pehkau, T'Lissa," T'Pol said softly. "Our guests must rest after their journey." Her daughter's grunt indicated a lack of sympathy with anyone too tired to expend energy on truly important matters like playing with her.

"Ooooh!" Hoshi squealed in delight. "Look at her go! Malcolm, Captain. Look how much she has grown! It's only been such a short time and look how big she has gotten." Hoshi gave T'Pol a beseeching look. "May I? Please?"

T'Lissa suddenly froze and looked at Hoshi with a puzzled expression. Her tiny face screwed up in a look of intense concentration for a moment. Then she exploded into a storm of chattering and arm waving excitement. The baby suddenly started lunging for Hoshi, ignoring the two men completely. "I believe she remembers you," T'Pol remarked, handing the pocket sized tornado to her former shipmate.

"You're kidding, right?" Hoshi asked her in disbelieving happiness. She turned toward the baby, who was busily tugging at her hair. "Hi there, Honey. Do you really remember me? You can't remember me can you? You were barely big enough to peek over the top of your diaper the last time you saw me."

"Of course she can," T'Pol assured her. "Vulcan children can recognize and identify individual faces immediately after birth, and retain long term memories of them within a few days. And you were the third female she ever came into contact with. I am certain she retains memories of both your appearance and your voice."

"Oh my goodness," Hoshi's voice cracked and she hugged T'Lissa. Not perhaps the wisest course of action, as it turned out. The little one, ever the opportunistic investigator, decided to find out why Hoshi's ear was shaped so strangely by removing it for closer examination. "Uh, no baby. You can look at it if you want to. But it doesn't come off. Really, it doesn't detach. I swear, it doesn't. I'm not lying. It really doesn't." Eventually T'Lissa gave up and turned her attention to other matters, leaving Hoshi to silently mouth an exaggerated 'ouch' and rub the side of her head vigorously.

"This is a beautiful house, ma'am," the captain interjected, hoping to smooth things out a bit. Vague memories from Surak's katra informed him that no one of any race could ever go wrong by complimenting a woman's taste in decor.

"I should hope so," T'Para responded a touch smugly. "I spent one hundred and thirty-six years decorating it."

"Really?" Archer replied respectfully. "That's very impressive."

"What is impressive about it?" T'Para tilted her head again and skewered him with a laser gaze. "The fact that I have spent the years doing it? Or the concept that it took me one hundred and thirty-six years to get it right?"

Archer froze and looked desperately at T'Pol, who merely raised an interested eyebrow and waited for his reply. Malcolm closed his eyes and bowed his head in sympathy. "I... simply meant that quality takes time."

T'Para raised both eyebrows. "I did not mean to imply that I needed more than a century to determine the proper placement for my potted plants young man. But the years have taught me through experience some basic principles to simplify the process of organization."

"Yes, ma'am," Archer seized on it gratefully. "That's what I was trying to say."

"Then why didn't you?" T'Para inquired curiously.

"I... uh... I guess I am not thinking too clearly because of the heat," Archer blurted out. He took another swig of water hopefully, silently pleading with fate to let the old lady drop it. Fate was kind for once and she turned to pick on Malcom.

"Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed," T'Para said. Malcolm swallowed hard. Conditioned reflexes that had lain dormant for twenty years brought him to seated attention.

"Yes, ma'am?" he replied crisply.

"Trip has informed me that you are suicidally brave, loyal as your captain's dog, and 'dumb as a post' when it comes to women," T'Para told him casually. "Would you consider this an accurate summation?"

Hoshi snorted and coughed her way into a giggling fit. Malcolm's mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed, "I really couldn't say, ma'am. I am not confident in my ability to judge myself impartially."

Hoshi proclaimed. "It's perfect!" She fell back against the chair, hugging the baby and choking with laughter. T'Lissa, clueless about what brought it on but always willing to join in a good joke, squealed her way into the chorus.

"Trip has a tendency to be somewhat less than tactful on occasion," T'Pol murmured, glancing at T'Para.

The Eldest Mother waved her attempted warning away. "In that case, perhaps we can assist you. I understand that your counterpart on the alternate timeline Enterprise never married and died childless." Hoshi's laughter slowed and stopped. She leaned forward and started looking interested. "This is a tragedy that need not befall you here," T'Para continued. "I know that Humans do use not arranged marriages as such. But Trip has recently agreed to assist a friend by expediting contact with a potential mate. Perhaps we could offer similar assistance.

Malcolm's eyes were the size of grapefruits. "I'm afraid I don't understand," Malcom said weakly. "Ma'am," he added.

Archer broke in. "You know about the alternate time Enterprise?" his voice suddenly tensed.

"Yes," T'Para said calmly. "What of it?"

"That's highly classified information, Madam," Captain Archer told her between clenched teeth. "Trip and T'Pol had no business disclosing that information to you."

T'Pol's face froze and she flicked her glance over to T'Para. Her heart sank as she watched the Eldest Mother's eyebrows draw together and both nostrils widen a trifle. As Trip would say, it was about to hit the fan. T'Pol briefly debated grabbing her child and running for it. But such cowardice would be completely dishonorable, when neither Hoshi nor Malcolm possessed any such escape option. All they could do was sit and hope for minimal collateral damage.

"You are not aboard your ship, Captain Jonathon Archer," T'Para informed him deadpan. "This is Vulcan. Here, Vulcan law prevails."

"I am aware of that, Lady T'Para," Archer held onto his temper with both hands. This was the last straw as far as he was concerned. First, Gardner dumped the whole situation into his lap and blithely assured him that he had complete faith that everything would work out fine. And by the way, if anything goes wrong it's all your fault Jon. Then Trip had to pick _right now _to go haring off cross country on his Kahs-Wahn. Like it couldn't have waited another week or two. Then Trask turned out to be an arrogant pain in the butt. Then they had to hike an extra three kilometers to get here. And now it turned out that two of his most trusted friends had been casually scattering top secret information hither and yon with gay abandon. It was all just too much.

"However," Archer continued, "Trip is a Starfleet officer and bound by Starfleet regulations and Earth law. And while T'Pol is no longer a Starfleet officer per se, she took an oath to adhere to Starfleet regulations. Neither of them had any right to reveal this information without authorization."

"I see," T'Para said coldly. "However you are making several inaccurate assumptions young man. Shall I enumerate them for you?"

Archer took a deep breath. "Please do," he said tightly.

"Foremost among your assumptions, child," T'Para lectured, "is your conviction that Trip or T'Pol was the source of my information. They were not. I obtained my briefing directly from a representative of the High Council. Minister Kuvak in fact, who happens to be the widower of the third cousin of my nephew's wife's brother."

Archer's jaw dropped. T'Para went on before he had time to respond. "Your expression indicated surprise. Did you think that one reaches the position of Eldest Mother of a major clan without developing political and professional contacts along the way? I served as Chief Minister of the Security Directorate for twenty-nine years. I still have many connections. Most of them are members of my own family."

"I... didn't know that," Archer said in a subdued tone.

"No, you did not," T'Para continued to administer verbal discipline, not bothering to dilute it with mercy. "Nor did you bother to find out. You merely made an unwarranted assumption and then leaped into action as if your assumption were proven fact. A pattern of behavior that your ship's logs reveal to have been all too common during your time as T'Pol's commanding officer." Three watching faces winced.

"You have been reading my logs?" Archer asked in disbelief.

"Naturally," T'Para waved it away. "How else could I obtain an impartial evaluation of your character and competence? Trip is prejudiced in your favor due to your long friendship. T'Pol is reluctant to criticize you for Trip's sake, and because she believes that you are honestly trying to learn and improve. My personal conclusion, based on my experience as a Chief Minister, is that your style of command is woefully inefficient. Your pathological inability to delegate responsibility is going to get you and your crew killed someday. But that is not my concern. _However._"

T'Para leaned forward. "If you intend to succeed in your current mission, I suggest that you modify your habits, young man. Not only were you incorrect in your assumption concerning the source of my information, but you were also incorrect about another matter."

She glared at him, daring him to open his mouth. He didn't. "The captain of the alternate Enterprise, Lorian, was a member of my clan. By clan law, thousands of years older than your Starfleet regulations, T'Pol was obligated to inform me of his existence so that his name could be entered into the family's records. Even though the temporal anomaly that you encountered may well have destroyed him, the fact that he once did exist is sufficient to grant him a place in the clan rolls. As his mother, she was required by clan law and custom to enter his name. Not to do so would have been a betrayal of her own child. The vilest form of treachery imaginable. So do not presume to adopt a self-righteous attitude regarding what would or would not have been proper for her to tell me. Do you understand me, Jonathan Archer?"

"Yes, ma'am," Archer mumbled, swaying slightly in his chair. He sat blinking, too punch drunk to make any reply.

"Now," T'Para sat back. "As I was saying, Malcolm Reed. My grandson Serl's daughter T'Jala is currently unbonded...

&

Ambassador Kilruym adjusted his chair to a more comfortable position and made sure that his cup of Human chocolate was conveniently at hand. The stuff was highly addictive, just as Trask had warned him. It was a lapse of discipline for a veteran with his years of experience in the Andorian Guard to indulge so frequently in this newly acquired vice. But by the Great Mother herself, it was s_o good_.

The main viewscreen on the wall of his office lit up in two subsections. The left half displayed the interior of a private briefing room located on Andoria, deep inside the bowels of the Central Command HQ. The other side showed a nondescript table with two equally nondescript Andorians, apparently civilians, sitting alertly with note taking supplies ready. Ambassador Kilruym tapped his stylus on his desk and signaled the meeting was ready to begin.

"Greetings and respect to all of you," he began. "I thank you for responding to my call."

The old woman displayed on the left half of the screen snapped, "We understand that you have become accustomed to flowery speeches, Kilruym. But the rest of us have real work to get done. Get on with it."

The ambassador broke into a chuckle. "Skrilla, you haven't changed at all. All right then. Enterprise assumed orbit earlier today. Trask called Archer down immediately, of course. I expect a request for a meeting with those two very soon. Before I go into that, I wanted to consult with our expert on Archer," he nodded at the man sitting beside General Skrilla, "and the two agents who put the first broke the pack ice on this voyage." He turned to the right side of the screen.

"Lethos. Thyren. Have you obtained any further information from unofficial channels that I can use?"

The two of them traded looks. "Probably nothing that you don't already know," Thyren told him. "I can confirm that Dark Agent Harris is unhappy about Soval being on Vulcan. The Humans are working on something that they believe will force him to return to Cairo, but I haven't pinned down what it is yet."

Kilruym's antennae twisted in understanding. "Soval has been making noises about setting up a meeting to discuss 'matters of mutual benefit'."

"He knows?" The man sitting beside Skrilla leaned forward tensely.

"Of course he knows, Commander," Ambassador Kilruym snorted. "The Vulcans have had more than a hundred years to penetrate Human security. Not even the most incompetent operative could fail to accomplish something in that length of time."

Lethos chuckled. "The Humans apparently compromised the new Vulcan embassy within 57 days." Thyren's mouth twitched into a smile.

"I have come to have great respect for Human resourcefulness," Thyren admitted. "It keeps us busy here intercepting and countering their attempts to penetrate our embassy. We finally found it most expedient to simply let them succeed in planting a few listening devices at controlled locations. It saved a lot of bother."

"And no doubt they did the same to you," Skrilla growled in disgust.

"No doubt at all, General," Lethos replied soothingly. "We all know the rules of this game. Humans have been playing it as long as we have."

"What is that devious old ice grinder after this time?" General Skrilla's companion wondered aloud.

"The Human Dark Guard," Lethos offered, "is operating under the assumption that the Vulcans will attempt to sabotage the exchange."

"I am not so certain of that," Kilruym muttered. "Something in Soval's manner seemed... uneasy. There is more here than one can perceive on the surface. I suspect that there is some tension between the Humans and the Vulcans that we are not privy to."

"What about that, Lethos?" Skrilla's companion demanded. "That recording you submitted implied that there was a Vulcan somewhere impairing the Humans in their warp drive upgrades. On the face of it this sounds ludicrous. Knowing Tucker as I do, I can easily picture him grabbing any interfering Vulcan by both ears and pitching him straight out the nearest airlock."

"We are still attempting to discover the reason for that secret meeting, Commander Shran," Lethos replied. "Agent Thyren has a contact at the 602 club who provided a possible lead. But so far we have only one solid piece of information to report."

"Then report it," Skrilla snapped sharply.

Thyren cleared his throat. "The day before the meeting, a Tellarite freighter dropped off a Vulcan passenger traveling under false documentation. He was detected and intercepted by Human authorities and taken for questioning." Thyren paused. "Somehow he managed to end up dead. The official cause of death is listed as "natural causes". The Vulcans have invoked privacy seal on the information, and his body was cremated, The ashes are sealed pending shipment back to Vulcan."

There was general silence while everyone considered this tidbit. Finally Kilruym asked, "What was he really? A courier?"

"An assassin," Lethos said bluntly. Shran let out an angry hiss and straightened in his chair, his antennae twisting in rage. Kilruym's fist clenched but he gave no other overt reaction. General Skrilla's face tightened and darkened.

"Are you certain?" she growled.

"Confirmed, General," Lethos said soberly. "He was a known criminal, wanted by Vulcan law for more than two decades. His last known location was deep inside the Orion Syndicate. Why he would even consider returning to known space, much less to Vulcan's closest ally, is unknown."

"I may not own the sharpest cutter on the rack," Shran said sarcastically, "but I will take a slice at this puzzle. I will wager everything I own and everything I ever expect to earn that he had a contract to fulfill."

"It seems likely," Lethos agreed.

"Small wonder then," Skrilla considered, "that Soval wants to meet with you. If things have deteriorated to the point that the Humans and Vulcans are sending assassins after each other."

"We don't know that," Kilruym pointed out. "It could be a faction of Vulcans. Perhaps some of V'Las' cohorts are seeking to regain a foothold. Perhaps a revenge attempt of some sort. It could be a variety of things. I can't afford to get too optimistic yet."

"How will the Humans respond to this, Lethos?" General Skrilla demanded.

Commander Shran grimaced and rubbed his face, while Lethos and Thyren put on identical expression of pain. Lethos opened his mouth and hesitated. "General." He paused. "We really have no way of knowing." He winced at her expression.

"You have no way of knowing." Her voice was a deadly monotone. "How long have you been there, studying these people Lethos? Have you actually _done _anything? Has all your time been spent sipping the local beverages and reading pornographic literature from home?"

"It's not his fault, General," Shran broke in. "No one can predict a Human. They are insane. As a species I mean. Totally unpredictable. They can't even tell you themselves what they are likely to do at any given moment."

"Don't try to be amusing Shran," Skrilla sounded like she was in no mood for games. "An entire species cannot be insane and still survive."

"I don't know what else to call it," Shran said stubbornly. "Look at the evidence. Look at how they reacted when the Xindi attacked them. An unknown race comes from nowhere and attacks their planet. What do they do? They send _one ship _off into completely unknown space to deal with the threat. Was this a rational response?"

Skrilla stopped for a moment. "All right. But in their defense, they had never been attacked before. They had no experience, and they were still hoping that their so called allies would offer them some help."

"They had never been attacked by another race," Shran admitted. "But they had certainly been fighting each other for their entire history. Humans are far from novices when it comes to war." He considered for a moment.

"What about this then? When V'Las was planning his treacherous attack against us, Commander Tucker disobeyed his own high command to bring Soval deep into our space to find me and report the Vulcan's plan. He risked his career and his life, his ship and his crew's lives, to prevent a war that meant nothing to his people. The Vulcans had already betrayed his people when they needed them most, and we had certainly not done anything to earn their loyalty, had we? Considering that I was ordered to steal the prototype Xindi weapon from them." Skrilla and Kilruym both looked embarrassed. "I defy you to tell me that was not irrational behavior."

"He is one individual," Kilruym pointed out. "You said the whole species is crazy."

"They are," Shran's antennae twisted in the equivalent of a shrug. "Most Humans are decent enough. They have a code of honor and they try to live by it. But the most stable of them will bear close watching."

"It is this planet of theirs," Thyren said earnestly, leaning toward the camera pickup. "It is like no habitable world I have ever seen before. It is impossible, literally impossible to predict what this Hellpit is going to throw at you next. If you are not ready at any split second to react with lightning speed to the constant flux and flow of conditions here, you die. It is as simple as that. Swift adjustment to constant change is the price of survival on Earth."

"Is it really that bad there?" Kilruym wanted to know. "I have heard Thrella complain about it, but she is always complaining in any case."

Lethos sighed. "There are some places here on Earth, depending on latitude and the distribution of land and water, that..." He shook his head. "This 'Mother Earth' of theirs is a ravenous hunter that delights in devouring her own young."

"What specifically are you referring to?" Skrilla wanted to know.

Lethos thought for a moment. "There are some areas on this planet where it is possible to get up at dawn to greet a beautiful sunny morning, with warm pleasant breezes, and by noon be facing a rain storm - with howling winds that can lift you off the ground and throw you hard enough to break bones." Lethos winced and added as an aside, "I hate rain. Snow is wonderful of course. But rain soaks its way inside your clothing and coats you in a sheath of melted exoskelteon."

"It sounds miserable," Shran agreed distastefully.

"It can be even more miserable," Thyren added ruefully, "if you are forced to leave your shelter and flee because an undersea quake has caused a tsnunami to sweep in toward you."

"That might be disconcerting, I will admit," Skrilla acknowledged.

"But then you find that you must change course and veer away from your planned escape route," Thyren continued, "because the tectonic disturbance was more extensive than you first realized, and that lovely mountain you admired this morning has just blown up and spewed flaming lava over the area."

Shran made a choking sound. "Blown up? What do you mean, blown up?"

"Exactly what he said, Commander," Lethos replied grimly. "He meant blown up. Exploded. Like a torpedo. I know it is hard to imagine, since very few class M worlds have active volcanoes."

"There are active volcanoes here on Vulcan," Kilruym said. "But they don't blow up."

"That's because the plate tectonics on Vulcan are significantly less active than on Earth," Thyren noted. "I'm sure you have noted the volcanoes on T'Kuht? They are large and fiery enough to be seen with the naked eye at night. The volcanic activity is almost as fierce here as it is on T'Khut. The edge of the tectonic plate that surrounds the major oceanic area is so active that Humans refer to it as the Ring of Fire."

Thyren stopped to catch his breath and Lethos interjected helpfully. "While you are fleeing the tsnunami and the lava flow, you must watch carefully to avoid falling trees that are being torn loose by the howling winds, or struck down by the massive thunderbolts that split the sky on this world like pulse cannons.

"Oh, one last thing," Thyren mentioned. "One must be careful while fleeing the tsnunami and the volcano, as the storm and the screaming winds are trying to rip the skin off your back, to avoid being fried by the forest fires that the lava started. Not to mention the mudslides."

"All of this between sunrise and sunset," Lethos said tiredly.

"Mudslides." Kilruym said flatly.

"Oh yes, Ambassador," Lethos told him. "The ground is only frozen here at the poles. Nowhere else. So any admixture of water in any form destabilizes things quite remarkably."

"How did they build a civilization?" Skrilla wondered. "Without any solidly frozen ground for a base, how do they keep their buildings from tumbling over?"

"By drilling down to bedrock, usually." Thyren explained. "But it is not unusual at all for entire towns to be buried in mudslides. Or in lava flows. Or flattened in windstorms. Or shaken to pieces in quakes. Or washed away in flood waters."

"Great Mother Andor," Shran whispered. "I knew from talking to them that their world was harsh. Archer and I had compared notes about the differences between mountain climbing on Andoria and on Earth. I also remember hearing Tucker talk about growing up near that foul sounding swamp. But this-"

"Near a swamp?" Thyren absently tugged on his antenna, to the amusement of all present. "What about _in _a swamp? One the most highly prized cities on this planet is sinking."

"What?" said Kilruym.

"What?" said Skrilla.

"What?" said Shran.

"Sinking," said Thyren with a twitch of his right antenna and a head shake. He leaned back in his chair with a distracted expression.

"By the Tongue Dancers of Rigil," Kilruym demanded, "What is he talking about Lethos?"

Lethos looked resigned. "The city is named Venice. It is very old, by Human standards. They built it in the middle of a swamp, on poles."

"On what?" Skrilla stared, dumbfounded.

"Poles," Lethos repeated. "They drove long poles down into the mud as deeply as they could. Then they built their houses on top of them. It is a common practice here. What is unusual about Venice is that they built an entire city this way. Instead of streets they use canals, and boats instead of ground cars."

"You cannot possibly be serious," Shran whispered hoarsely, incredulous.

"It's true," Thyren insisted. "But over the centuries, the city has settled into the mud. So the Humans have continued to build it up higher and higher. They have also worked to try and drain the swamp somewhat, and generally do whatever they can to preserve the area. But the planet is winning the battle. Their Mother Earth is eating them, slowly but surely."

Kilruym looked dazed. "And I complain about dry heat."

"They have that here too," Lethos said helpfully. "There is a place called, appropriately enough, Death Valley, where temperatures can reach as high as 57 degrees."

Kilruym winced. "It doesn't get much hotter than that in the Forge," he grumbled.

"It is not all like that," Lethos assured them. "The climate here in Toronto is quite tolerable in winter. From this point northward things are quite pleasant. Except for the storms of course. This atmosphere is... turbulent. That moon of theirs is a veritable demon when it comes to weather disturbance."

"Why would their moon matter?" Shran objected. "Andoria orbits a gas giant. Surely our planet is subjected to greater stress."

"But our oceans are covered in pack ice," Lethos pointed out. "Here, the tidal variations cause massive shifts in water level twice a day. Every day. This of course plays havoc with the oceanic currents. And this planet wobbles on its axis like a top that is about to fall over. The axial tilt on this planet is more than 23 degrees, if you can believe it. Twenty-three degrees! The seasonal variations in temperature are incredible."

"Especially when the atmosphere turns upside down," Thyren interjected helpfully.

After a few moments it occurred to Lethos that, if the Human proverb were literally true and silence were actually golden, one could readily purchase a palace on Rigel's fourth moon with the wealth that was pouring out of the monitor in front of them. He eventually decided to answer the question that everyone was afraid to ask before they all starved. He cleared his throat delicately.

"What Agent Thyren is talking about," Lethos offered cautiously, "Is referred to by the Humans as a 'temperature inversion'. It is caused by a major disturbance in the atmospheric pressure, which is caused by shifts in the prevailing wind currents, which are in turn brought about due to the axial tilt and the tidal force of their moon on the massive quantities of liquid water that cover this planet's surface. You see -."

"Don't bother," Shran muttered. "Now, suddenly, many things become very clear to me."

"It seems I may have judged too quickly and harshly Lethos," Skrilla acknowledged stiffly. "From what the pair of you are telling me, it is small wonder that Human behavior would sometimes be... erratic." She shuddered slightly. "But such a place as you describe must be unimaginably stressful. How could they have ever learned to hold themselves together long enough to build a civilization, much less achieve starships? How do they cope with it all?" she wondered.

The two Dark Guard agents look at each other helplessly. Finally Lethos tentatively offered, "I have noticed that they seem to curse a great deal."

&

Trip drained the last of his water. Time for a refill. He needed to get out from under this thing anyway. His half-assed excuse for a shelter was keeping out the sunlight all right. But even with the openings that he left at each end of the ledge, air movement was at a premium. Trip seriously considered moving on, daylight or not, just in hopes of finding better shelter. Mediation was a washout. It wasn't going to happen, not under these conditions.

His split lips were bleeding again. It hurt to drink, and it hurt to close his mouth afterward. The corners of his lips had cracked and scabbed over a dozen times in the last two days. Now he could barely open it far enough to ease the rim of the canteen into place. Thousands of hot pins jabbed into his sinuses with every breath he drew. If he breathed through his mouth, he avoided the sinus pain but he choked on dust and phlegm instead.

"_Can't win for losing," _ Trip though ironically. The heaviness in his bladder added yet another good reason to get out from under the lid of this roasting pan. As he started scooting for the opening Trip's sore palms received a fond farewell from the lacerating gravel that covered the ledge. But his poor dented backside, flattened and misshapen from being smashed down on stone under Vulcan gravity, rejoiced at the relief. His feet didn't care one way or the other. They had cut off all communication with him sometime last night, and were sullenly refusing to discuss any and all peace overtures.

He couldn't help a gasping grunt when his bare head came out from under the covering. Trip grabbed frantically at his hood and flung it over his head before his brain caught on fire. He scrambled in slow motion the rest of the way out from under his hanging emergency blanket and shakily rose to a weaving crouch.

"_Shoulda brought the sombrero,"_ he thought resentfully, ticked off at himself. "_Don't care how stupid it woulda looked. Don't care if T'Pol woulda been embarrassed. I shoulda brought it." _What made it worse was that knowledge that T'Pol had offered no objection to his using the monstrous lid. She told him to wear anything that he felt comfortable in, and that he felt would give him the best protection. Trip had decided to leave the hat behind on his own, just to keep from feeling like a fool when he started off with all those little kids.

Trip started to straighten and felt a muscle in his back spasm. "_Oh shit!"_ He let his left his knee bend and lowered himself back down as slowly as possible. A twinge of real fear hit him for the first time since the test began. If his back went out, or he became disabled in any way out here, then he was a dead man. What would be a minor problem at home would surely kill him here. And a Human operating under Vulcan gravity was at constant risk for everything from sprained ankles to slipped disks.

"Maybe it's just stretched," he prayed. "Maybe I have just been sitting in one place too long and I got stiff." He knelt and tried to control his breathing, using the disciplines that T'Para had taught him. The fear was there, and it had to be dealt with. Hiding from it wasn't going to help. He had to face it and conquer it logically.

All right. Assume the worst. Even if he was really injured, he still wasn't going to die here. He was within shouting distance of the first station. All he had to do was yell for help and the two Vulcan watchers down there would come and save his pitiful Human ass. It would be humiliating, but not fatal. The worst part would be facing T'Pol after his failure. He would almost rather be eaten by a Le'Matya.

If he wasn't able to continue they would carry him down to the spring, give him water and food. They would use their medical kit and shoot him up with pain killer. Then one of them would climb the cliff and fire off a green smoke flare - the signal for an injured tester. A trained emergency response team would be in motion within moments.

This part of the Forge had been carefully chosen for the Kahs-Wahn course. The electro-magnetic interference was weak in this area. It wasn't a good idea to carry conductive metal in here, and electronic equipment of any kind had to be heavily shielded and only worked at point blank range. But simple machinery could be made to operate. A light flyer constructed from resin, fiberglass and tempered ceramic compounds, powered by an alcohol burning engine, would be dispatched to pick him up.

"So I'm gonna be ok, no matter what happens," he told himself quietly. "All I need to do is assess the situation logically, and determine the correct course of action." He paused to replay what he had just said in his head. "_Oh man," _he laughed painfully to himself, "_Everyone told me that old married couples start to act like each other. But I didn't expect it to start this quick." _There were worse people he could start imitating, he considered with a fond smile.

Trip carefully stretched out his arms, one at a time, and tested the feel of his shoulders. No pain, good. Now for the hard part. He looked at the rock wall next to him and remembered how hot it felt in the early morning. By now the stone would be hot enough to blister. Trip tucked his hands up under his tunic and used it to insulate them as he grabbed a pair of hand holds to brace against. Then he slowly and carefully straightened both of his legs. This time he made it up with only a few minor twinges. He stood panting and tried picking up his feet one at a time, bending and flexing his knees and swinging his legs off to the side to test his range of motion.

So far, so good. Trip turned and looked down the slope that he had crawled up to reach the ledge. This would be the real test. If he made it down to the plain without crippling himself, he would be fine. He made sure that his canteen was secure, then he moved over to the top of the slope and sat down. It wasn't fun, but it wasn't as bad as he had dreaded. Sliding down was easier than climbing after all.

When he hit bottom, hit being the operative word, his vision was swimming. Trip could tell he was breathing because he felt the cloth across his chest tightening every time he drew a breath. But that was the only clue he had. Somehow the air didn't seem to be doing him much good. If you could dignify it with the name of air. Damn this planet. Damn this atmosphere. Damn this gravity. Damn that sunlight. Damn these boots. Damn he had to piss.

Trip debated just turning it loose right where he stood. But he remembered how close he was to the spring and thought better of it. Male Vulcans didn't have noses anywhere near as sensitive as Vulcan women, but there was no percentage in being deliberately obnoxious. He still didn't have any real idea how the proctors for the Kahs-Wahn were chosen. For all he knew, those two guys might even be members of T'Pol's clan. The last thing he needed would be for one of them to go back and report to T'Para that he had acted like an animal.

"_Probably not an issue that they have to deal with very often,"_ Trip reflected as he trudged wearily off toward a fairly tall rock. "_Considering that Vulcans old enough to be potty trained don't urinate more than once every two or three days." _He ducked behind the boulder, glancing through squinted eyes and a layer of cloth from his hood for the presence of anything carnivorous. The area was mercifully bare of local residents, and Trip sighed in blessed relief as he unloaded. He noted with interest that the stuff evaporated almost before it hit the ground, leaving only a small, pale stain to mark the spot. He fastened up and felt much more optimistic for some reason.

Trip turned back and took unsteady aim at the banner marking the spring. He knew it couldn't be as far away as the heat waves make it seem. No way he would have been able to walk that far. "_Just keep putting one foot in front of the other one Tucker," _ he told himself. "_You will get there eventually."_

When he finally arrived Trip was overjoyed to discover that the moving sun had cast a slight shadow over the spring, leaving a sliver of shade next to the cliff. Just barely enough for him to squeeze into. He promptly flopped down next to the faucet and filled his canteen. Then he scooted over to the cliff and used a flat rock to scrape away the top layer of dirt, exposing the slightly less scorched subsoil. Trip sat down on the peeled dirt and took a massive swig of water. Then he struggled loose from his tunic and spread it over the dirt in front of himself.

Gingerly, not looking forward to what he would find, Trip pulled off his boots and rested his bare feet on his spread tunic. He winced when he finally got his socks off, as much from what he saw as from what he felt. Actually, his feet were pretty numb. But he knew better than to expect things to stay that way. Broken blisters were turning raw and both feet were badly swollen. "_Not good Tucker. Not good at all. You better do something about this, fast, or you are gonna be crawling the rest of the way."_

The Vulcans observed him with uncertain interest. There was nothing in the rules of the Kahs-Wahn that said a tester couldn't sit down next to the spring and stay there all day. It was just unheard of. But of course, no Human had ever taken the test before. They looked at each other in frustrated silence, unable to discuss the matter while Trip was present. Then the scent of his unbooted feet became evident, and they had a new subject to avoid discussing.

Trip noted the changing expressions and realized that the slight breeze was blowing from him toward his hosts. He shrugged. "_Sorry guys,"_ he thought. "_Not my fault you put your awning downwind of the spring." _ He took the laces out of his boots and peeled the tongues all the way back, turning each boot upside down to make sure that any moisture either dripped or evaporated out. Although there wasn't much chance that dampness would last long. His socks got turned inside out, rinsed and wrung out, then hung over a nearby rock to dry.

Trip decided that since he had water to spare, it was time to do something about the salt build up. A sponge bath was somewhat challenging without a sponge, but he could at least retrieve one of his socks for a washcloth and swab off his face, chest, and armpits. It made a real difference in his sense of well-being. The Vulcans watched with pained expressions at this waste of precious water.

Wiping off his feet was more in the nature of first aid. Adding the salt tablets to his drinking water also added a new and interesting dimension to the way it felt when it hit his broken blisters. But Trip reflected that at least the salt should help disinfect them. Afterward he re-rinsed his longsuffering sock again and hung it up to rest beside its brother. Then he leaned forward with his head in his hands.

At least here there was some air moving. Trip took deep breaths and tried to convince himself that there was actually oxygen entering his lungs. He steadied himself and forced his breathing into the pattern T'Pol taught him for entering the first level of meditation.

The weight of his head pressed heavy against his hands, forcing his tired elbows to dig hard into his thighs. His back ached and his ribs were sore from fighting for breath. Freed from their binding, his feet were starting to throb like a pair of toothaches. Trip's head swam. Bile rose up and he locked his teeth to keep from losing the water he just drank. The hot breeze tickled around his bare chest and shoulders, prickling the short hairs.

It would be so easy to give up and quit now. They were sitting right there. He wouldn't even have to raise his head and face them. He could just mumble out that he was ready to give up. That would be all it would take. Then he could go home. He could rest. He could take a long, cool shower. He could drink something besides salty water, and he could eat real food. He could sleep. In a real bed no less. And he wouldn't have to watch for anything coming to kill him.

All he would have to do is give up. All he would have to do is admit to T'Pol that he wasn't strong enough.

The weight of his whole body pushed down hard against the dirt. Or maybe the weight of the whole planet was pushing hard up against his body. Trip couldn't tell the difference anymore. He floated in a dark limbo between consciousness and trance. A buzzing in his ears mixed with the throbbing of his pulse, and the rasping of his sore breaths whistled and echoed through his head.

"_Daddy?" _

_Trip looked down and saw a little girl with her mother's brown hair and delicately pointed ears. But the worried little eyes that looked up at him imploringly were as Human as his own. _

"_What is it, Honey?" he asked gently. _

"_I'm scared, Daddy," the little girl told him. "Momma says I can do it. She says she did it and she knows I can do it. But she is Vulcan and I am half Human. What if my Human part can't do it?" _

_Trip felt a cold hand grab his chest. "You can do it, baby girl. I know you can," he assured her. _

"_Are you sure?" the worried child asked him. "Really and truly sure? What was it like when you did it?" _

_Trip felt sick. "I don't know, Honey. "I... wasn't able to finish it."_

Trip's fists clenched and he straightened convulsively upright. "_NO! By all the gods and devils that have ever been named or imagined by any race anywhere! I won't quit. I will die first. It's me or this planet. One of us is going down."_

Ignoring the sudden stares of the two Vulcan watchers, Trip placed his hands in the Pl'Trin position and began reciting his own personal mantra silently to himself. He closed his eyes and focused on taking deep, controlled breaths. Doubts, fears, anger, all were swept aside. Nothing mattered but the rhythm and the focus.

It was a long day. Trip spent nine tenths of it in second level meditation trying to make contact with T'Pol. Periodically he would receive flashes of images. T'Para drinking a cup of tea. T'Lissa crying. T'Lissa laughing and waving a toy. T'Pol sitting in meditation and looking back at him with a smile.

On the last one, Trip tried hard to hold the connection and talk. But weakness and fatigue did him in. He just couldn't keep up his end of the link. Too many distractions in the form of pain and thirst made it impossible for him to maintain his focus well enough. T'Pol's image kept flickering in and out until finally she faded from his vision completely. But he was sure she saw him, and her smile looked relieved.

The shadows lengthened. Finally Trip judged that he had about half an hour until sunset. Time to start preparations. T'Kuht would rise within one hour after sunset.

His feet were still highly pissed at him. But at least they were no longer threatening to quit and find a new owner. He eased the more or less somewhat slightly cleaner socks over his badly chewed toes with hisses and winces. The boots went on reluctantly, and he laced them as tightly as he dared. His tunic got beaten against a rock to knock off the worst of the sand. As an after thought, he turned it inside out and gave it a quick rinse, draping it over a rock to dry while he went after his emergency blanket.

The slope that he originally chose as a shelter had snuck into the shade while he wasn't looking. Trip eased his way up the slope and carefully checked under the hanging material in case any natives had claimed squatter's rights. His shelter was uninhabited. Not even the bugs were interested in it. Trip gathered up the edge of the blanket and pulled it out from under his anchoring rocks with a casual yank, then started folding it and smashing it down into a packet the size of his hand. By the time he got back to the spring darkness was falling and the Vulcans had lit a lamp.

Trip sighed and sat down to finish off his canteen and refill it yet again. The Vulcans looked at Trip, then glanced at each other and shook their heads almost imperceptibly. During the course of the day Trip had consumed over eight liters of water while they sat and watched, and here he was getting ready to drink once again. They knew that Earth was a waterlogged planet, but this was frankly ridiculous.

Trip paid no attention to the silent commentary. He concentrated on supercharging his tissues with as much water as he could possibly hold without making himself sick in the half hour he had left. He mentally reviewed his planned route.

Follow the cliff base east by northeast as it curved around. Eventually the cliffs would end up running almost due north until they met the foothills of the Sas'A'Shar mountain range. At this end of the range, the mountains were no more than molehills, barely a few hundred feet high. But they were plenty jagged enough to make life interesting for anyone fool enough to go in there.

At the end of the cliffs, find a pair of rock spires with a cap rock laying across them. Pass under the cap rock to locate the beginning of the trail into the mountains. This leg of the test was a planned two day route. Not for distance, but because of the difficult terrain. There were also the problem of the mountain Le'Matya to consider. Small than their flatland cousins, they were also faster, more agile, better climbers, and notably more aggressive. Since food was scarcer in the hills, they were prone to attack on sight anything that moved. But at least there was supposed to be a dearth of wild Sehlats.

On the other hand, the plants were reported to be quite irritable.

Trip emptied his canteen one last time and started filling it again just as the eastern sky lightened. The upper edge of T'Kuht's disk glowed orange against the horizon like the ominous flare of a distant explosion. He stood up and settled his canteen, adjusted his clothing, and stretched with a huge yawn. Then with a final glance at his two drinking buddies, Trip walked out into the alien night.

For several minutes neither spoke. Finally Sepel said softly, "Most remarkable."

"Indeed," Sturn replied. "I have been informed by one of my krei who is employed at the Earth embassy that Humans do not conform to any detectable standard of logic."

Sepel nodded in agreement. "How long has your krei been employed at the embassy?"

"Fourteen years," Sturn told him.

"An astonishingly disciplined and patient woman," Sepel said.

As Trip started moving along the base of the cliff, a figure at the top of the cliff turned and gestured. A second figure, also clad in mottled gray coveralls, joined him. The two of them began to pace along the top of the bluff, maintaining a steady distance back from their quarry.

The watcher lowered his infrared long range viewfinder. "Night Owl from Red Fox. Rabbit is afoot. Weasels are tracking."

"_Copy Red Fox. Maintain visual. Do not close unless Weasels try to bite. Night Owl is roosting at Stonehenge."_

"Copy Night Owl. We celebrate the solstice after Rabbit gets promoted. Out."

&

"This is delicious, T'Pol," Hoshi said. "It's really unfortunate that you can't eat tomatoes. They bring out the flavor of the ghurui leaves so exquisitely."

"I am gratified that you enjoy it," T'Pol replied. "Would you care for more kasa juice?"

While T'Pol refilled drinks T'Para sipped her tea and surveyed the table. Ganlas had fortuitously arrived just in time to join them for the evening meal, exactly as instructed. He and Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed quickly established an agreeable rapport discussing Security techniques. Meanwhile Ganlas was carefully assessing Malcolm for his suitability as potential mate for T'Jala.

Captain Archer, looking rather subdued, tried to soldier onward in his effort to make up for his earlier gaffe. "This really is a wonderful meal. Thank you." He took a bite and added with a touch of mischief, "Trip told me that he has tried to help with the cooking, but the only thing you will let him handle is breakfast sometimes."

T'Pol suppressed a sigh. "Unfortunately Trip's culinary skill does not match his enthusiasm. He is not quite as adept with a spatula as he is with a pair of calipers. The third time he set the kitchen on fire I was forced to set firm rules to preserve our health and safety."

Hoshi coughed and grabbed a napkin. "Excuse me," she gasped, turning crimson. Malcolm merely pursed his lips and nodded, as if unsurprised.

"And how are your cooking skills, Malcolm?" T'Para demanded abruptly. "Could you prepare a meal for your family if called upon to do so?"

Malcolm stiffened and felt a cold chill run up his spine. "_Uh-oh."_ He had been hoping the old lady was done grilling him about his domestic attributes. This was really starting to make him nervous. "Ur... ma'am, I can't say that I am especially gifted in the kitchen. I can prepare basic meals that will keep me alive, but nobody would claim they are tasty. I can eat them, but I wouldn't ask anyone else to make the attempt."

"I see," T'Para nodded. "Fortunately T'Jala is adept at food preparation. Her mother's sister's husband's father operates a dining establishment in the oldest part of Shi'Kahr, where she spent several of her formative years receiving advanced training as a chef."

Malcolm swallowed and shot his captain a wide eyed look of desperation. "I am sure that she is a lovely person, Lady T'Para," he stammered. "But I really-"

"Of course," T'Para continued unabated, "it is too early to consider such matters in depth, as it has yet to be determined whether the two of you would be compatible."

"Yes, Ma'am." Malcolm slumped in relief.

"Therefore the logical course of action is to arrange a meeting," T'Para told him. "T'Jala will visit your ship tomorrow at 1830 hours your time. I have already arranged the necessary clearances with T'Pau and Ambassador Trask. Will this be acceptable Captain Archer?" She turned to make the request with a look in her eye that warned him what his answer had better be.

Archer paused with his fork in midair, fixated like a bird staring at a cobra. Finally he muttered. "Certainly. Anytime would be fine."

T'Para nodded in satisfaction. "Since your time here may be limited, it would be best to expedite the preliminaries as rapidly as possible." Malcolm started looking pale.

Out of sheer pity, Hoshi changed the subject by asking T'Pol, "How are T'Lissa's verbal skills coming along? Are they..." She paused and bit her lip.

"It is all right," T'Pol assured her. "My entire clan is aware of T'Lissa's mixed blood. In the family, all is silence. It is safe to discuss her heritage here."

"Good," Hoshi looked relieved. "I was wondering how her verbal skills compare to a Vulcan child's?"

"Her speech patterns are significantly more advanced than is considered usual among Vulcan children," T'Para stepped in. "Unfortunately, neither T'Pol nor myself are qualified to evaluate her proficiency in Human terms. Do you have such training?"

"Well, yes, somewhat," Hoshi told them. "I am a linguistics teacher. Part of my training included learning about the stages of development for verbal communication in Human children. It was just part of the standard curriculum. But I haven't actually applied the knowledge in any practical manner for several years."

"Like riding a bicycle, Hoshi," Archer encouraged her. "It will come back to you. Besides, you can get a link to the Enterprise database for reference material."

"You are welcome to visit with us tonight," T'Para invited. "T'Lissa often becomes quite talkative in the evenings before bedtime. Primarily because she is objecting to the concept of going to sleep. It would give you a rich opportunity to observe her speech patterns."

"It would be agreeable to have the opportunity to catch up," T'Pol said, just a touch wistfully.

"It does sound nice..." Hoshi looked over at the captain, who nodded.

"Absolutely," Archer told her. He gave her a significant look. "_Maybe you can get a chance to talk to T'Pol without the old bat around," _he thought hopefully to himself.

T'Para hoisted one eyebrow and told Archer, "I would have thought that having carried Surak's katra, you would be more aware of Vulcan abilities, Jonathan."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he responded, suddenly feeling his mouth dry out.

"Nearly all Vulcans are touch telepaths to some degree," T'Para explained. "But by no means do all of us require physical contact in order to pick up surface thoughts. Especially when those thoughts are quite strong and narrowly focused, as yours were just now."

Archer closed his eyes in pained resignation. "_Just shoot me now. Please."_ He opened his eyes and told T'Para wearily, "I apologize, Lady T'Para. I meant no offense."

"Certainly not," she told him. "There can be no offense where none is taken. You had no anticipation of broadcasting your thoughts, and therefore no reason to expect me to take offense. I was merely warning you. When you go into meetings with representatives of our people regarding your upcoming technology exchange, I recommend that you attempt to curb your thoughts as much as possible." She paused. "Particularly when dealing with T'Pau, who is as skillful in the arts of the mind as any young person I have ever met."

Archer sighed. "I suppose that you were briefed about the technology exchange by a member of the high council also?"

"Actually no," T'Para mentioned. "I overheard your first call to Trip and T'Pol when you informed them of your mission. This is my house after all, Captain. And my Com as well."

"Technology exchange?" Ganlas asked, looking interested.

"Not a matter that needs to complicate your life at this time, Ganlas," T'Para told him.

"An agreeable relief then," he said, settling back and picking up his teacup. "Please continue and feel free to ignore my presence. I already know more than I wish to about things that do not concern me."

Archer felt the beginnings of a splitting headache. He rubbed his brow and asked in a low tone, "May I be so bold as to ask your opinion of the situation, Lady T'Para? Since you already know about this?"

T'Para tilted her head slightly. "It is not my place to hold an opinion, Captain. As I no longer occupy a position with our government, I am thankfully free of those responsibilities. But such exchanges take place routinely between races, and always have throughout history. Your people are moving from Protectorate status, and rising to take your place among the other political powers in the quadrant. You will find yourselves in this position many times in the future, just as Vulcan has found itself in this position many times in the past."

Archer looked thoughtful. "That's an aspect that I hadn't spent enough time considering. Thank you, Lady T'Para, for pointing that out. This is kind of horse trading is old hat to you, isn't it?"

T'Para blinked. "If by that you mean that such exchanges are commonplace, then the answer is yes. This is, after all, how the game of interstellar politics is played. Natural resources can be found almost anywhere. One system might have a rich deposit of dilithium crystals for example, but there is certain to be another such deposit somewhere else if desirable terms for the first one cannot be arranged. Space is vast, Captain. Anything you need can be found somewhere. True wealth is found in rarity.

"However, rarity is difficulty to establish. Aside from specialized foodstuffs, and a few drugs, the only unique items that any species has to offer for profitable trade are the fruits of its imagination. Ideas are the actual wealth of a species, Captain. Art, music, technology. These are the goods that determine whether a race will be regarded as rich or poor."

"I see," Archer said slowly, thinking hard.

"Then do you now see, Captain Archer," T'Para said calmly, "why the Vulcan people have never been eager to simply hand over our hard-earned wealth to other races simply for the asking? During my time as Security Minister, I often heard complaints from our Human allies because we refused to simply give them our superior technology. Can you begin to understand why we preferred to encourage you to earn your own living instead?"

Archer flushed and opened his mouth, then closed it again. He drew a deep breath and said nothing.

T'Para nodded. "Well done, Captain. Your control is praiseworthy. You may confidently expect such bluntness to be expressed repeatedly during your talks with T'Pau and Soval. As for Kilruym, I am sure you are aware that the Andorian's motivation in this matter is to inflict damage on Vulcan, while gaining an advantage for themselves. It is doubtful in the extreme that they harbor any deep seated feelings of goodwill toward Earth, other than as a potential weapon against us."

Everyone else at the table carefully maintained a discreet silence while Archer's jaw muscles worked. He replied, "I wasn't aware that you had relatives working in the Andorian embassy, in addition to the High Council and Security Directorate."

"I do not," T'Para told him. With perfect equanimity of course. "What I have is a clear understanding of Andorian motivation, based on decades of observation."

"And the Vulcan motivation?" Archer asked dryly.

T'Para applied a gently scolding eyebrow. "To prevent the Andorians from succeeding of course, what else?"

Archer couldn't keep his lips from twitching into a smile. "Whenever the diplomatic miasma gets too thick for me to bear, all I will need to do is remember your honesty tonight. It will blow through my mind like a breath of fresh air and flush out the taint."

"One of several reasons I cut short my term of service with the Security Directorate after only three decades," T'Para admitted. "My skills at political gaming among the other members of the high command, particularly V'Las, were less than exemplary."

Momentarily struck speechless by the mental image of this woman locking horns with V'Las, Archer finally managed to shake loose from his paralysis and announce, "Speaking of politics, I have a meeting at 0830 in the morning. This has been the most memorable evening I can recall in quite some time, Lady T'Para, but I am afraid I must be going."

Malcolm swiftly wiped his mouth and interjected, "I really must be leaving also. The debriefing took longer than we expected and I am disgracefully behind schedule on those efficiency reports, Captain." He stood up, trying not to look like he was escaping a fire. Neither of the two men paid attention to Hoshi, who was trying desperately to catch their eye.

"It is generally considered appallingly bad manners to leave the table before the host has announced the end of the meal," T'Para mentioned mildly. Both men froze, Archer half risen from his chair and Malcolm with one foot already turned to step away from the table. T'Para waved them away. "But since you were plainly never briefed in proper Vulcan behavior, I will not mention it again. Good evening to you both, Captain Jonathan Archer and Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed."

As they stepped outside and heard the front door close behind them, the two men stopped to share identical sighs of relief. Malcolm looked around and asked, _sotto voce_, "Shall we run for our lives, Sir?"

Archer shot him a flickering side glance. "Works for me, Commander. But with dignity please. Always with dignity."

The two of them started quick-stepping for the main gate, with many a backward glance.

(Continued in Chapter 3)


	3. Chapter 3

**Purgatory – Chapter 3 **

By Blackn'blue

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. I wrote this for fun. Feel free to copy, archive and/or distribute this story as long as you don't sell it. If I am not allowed to make money off it, nobody else is either. And that includes Paramount or anybody else associated with Star Trek. The characters and setting are theirs. My original ideas belong to me.

Note: Vulcan terms used in this story were taken from the online Vulcan Language Dictionary, the Vulcan Language Institute, or I made them up myself.

Rating: PG (Violence, Strong Language, Adult Situations, Brutal Survival Techniques, Frightening Old Ladies)

Description: This is the fourth story in my series that began with "For Want of A Nail" and continued with "In the Cold of the Night" and "Father to the Man". I suggest reading those before tackling this one. Otherwise many of the references won't make any sense.

**Chapter 3**

Phlox took a long, savoring sip of his tea and looked out the window of Kerlek's study. The stars as seen from this planet were an amazing sight to behold. The vision of Vulcan's night sky never failed to inspire him. The mellow golden glow T'Khut brought out gentle highlights along the walls and plantings of Kerlek's grounds. To Phlox's Denobulan vision, the night was dimly but adequately lit. He could plainly see the main gate to Kerlek's property from where he stood.

Behind him, Kerlek set his cup down with a faint click, reminding him that his host was no doubt seething with impatience. He smiled, turned around and said, "Once I started cross referencing items in the Human historical database, it all fell into place rather neatly." He put his cup down with a smug expression and handed Kerlek the data chip.

The Vulcan Healer leaned across the low table and took it with unconcealed eagerness. Just this once, he wasn't going to worry about propriety. Besides, he was in the privacy of his own home. If he couldn't let himself relax here, where could he relax?

&

After examining T'Lissa, the two of them had left Kerlek's office and spent a considerable amount of time in Kerlek's private lab, engrossed in studying the analysis results for the genetic samples he had taken from T'Lissa, T'Pol, and Trip. Phlox was entranced as the data scrolled past on the display screen. With ever increasing enthusiasm the Denobulan remarked on each nucleic acid linkage that showed up in common. Finally the last of the results had been displayed and Phlox turned to Kerlek, almost trembling with reaction.

"My dear colleague," he said, with a faint quaver in his voice, "do you realize the impact of this? Can you imagine what reaction this is going to have on both your world and on Earth?"

Kerlek nodded soberly. "Indeed I can, Doctor. Hence my reluctance to reveal anything at all until both of us have checked and confirmed _everything_ ." He paused. "I believe it would also be of inestimable assistance if we could at least offer a tentative hypothesis as to how and why this might have happened. I have studied the information you sent, and it seems that you may have discovered some key information. Were you able to learn any more?"

"In fact I was," Phlox told him. "Quite an extensive amount actually. Do you have someplace where we can sit down and get comfortable?"

"It is approaching the hour for the evening meal," Kerlek mentioned. "Perhaps you would honor me by dining at my home?"

The two of them had wolfed down a scant meal that neither of them tasted, and then retreated to Kerlek's study with a pot of tea and, in Phlox's case, a satchel full of research material.

&

"My first objective," Phlox mentioned while Kerlek inserted the data disk into his console, "was to double check the original sources of the information I sent you, and to confirm its accuracy."

"Of course," Kerlek agreed, activating the large viewscreen on the wall as he spoke. "Less than a year ago, the official position of the Science Directorate was that Human and Vulcan DNA were completely incompatible. For the two of us to go before the Review Board now and make the claim that the two races are not only compatible, but in fact share common ancestry, will require... persuasive... evidence indeed."

"I believe that the cumulative total of the evidence we have gathered, and are continuing to gather, will be sufficient to persuade anyone," Phlox retorted smugly. "Some of the archaeological data may be circumstantial, true. But it is internally consistent and it fits, as my Human colleagues in the Interspecies Medical Exchange used to say, like a glove. And the genetic data you have gathered is irrefutable Kerlek. Not even the most hidebound of your superiors can deny your results."

"You have never met my superiors," Kerlek muttered, half to himself. "Although there has been some mainstream acceptance of the theory that all humanoid life in the quadrant might share commonality of origin."

"Yes, I recall that theory." Phlox's face brightened. "I believe several scientists on various different worlds came up with the idea independently, did they not? It was developed to explain the ubiquitous presence of so many humanoid species."

"Indeed." Kerlek looked thoughtful. "On our world, Healer Sevtel of the Tehr'Diahl Center for Genetic Research made some calculations. He concluded that the probability of so many bipedal, warm blooded, four limbed, bilaterally symmetrical species, standing upright by using a vertical spine with horizontal ribs and a horizontal pelvis, and... well I won't enumerate the details. You know them as well as I. Sevtel concluded that the odds of so many races developing so many identical features independently via parallel evolution were on the close order of 1 in 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000."

"Even if the theory is correct," Phlox said, "there is no way to disprove it. If some alien humanoid race a billion years ago went about the galaxy spreading their seed like farmers, we have no way of ever knowing for sure. How can we test it? If a theory can't be tested, it is scientifically meaningless." He paused significantly. "But this my friend. This can be tested. These results can be tested and proven." He leaned forward in excitement and smacked his hand on his knee in excitement.

"To a limited extent," Kerlek cautioned him. "We can prove that some nucleic acid linkages in the Human genome are an identical match for the functionally equivalent linkages in the Vulcan genome. But so far, that is all we can prove."

"No, my dear Kerlek," Phlox insisted. "We can prove something else. We can prove that 70,000 years ago, something drastic happened on Earth. Something that changed Humans forever - physically, mentally, and behaviorally. We can prove that every Human alive today, every Human that carries the Vulcan genetic material you found, is descended from a base population of refugees who survived the worst catastrophic event in Human history. This is not theory my friend, this is fact."

"Tell me." Kerlek concentrated hard as Phlox began explaining.

Phlox took a deep breath. "Despite external appearances, Humans are genetically quite homogenous. There is greater genetic diversity among the Vulcan citizens in the city of Shi'Kahr alone than there is in the entire Human species."

"Really..." Kerlek looked stunned. "But their appearance is so variable."

"It's quite true, I assure you," Phlox told him. "The physical variations in skin tone, hair texture, body type, features, and so forth are the result of only a minuscule fraction of the Human genome. They are accumulated mutations due to the Founder Effect, after various Human populations were left geographically isolated from each other by oceans and mountain ranges."

"You mean that they all originated from a single population center?" Kerlek asked. "You told me that the base population was less than 10,000, which is difficult to believe in and of itself. But..."

"Yes." Phlox took a sip of his tea. "However, from what I have been able to determine, the 10,000 survivors were not the only Humans who lived through the disaster." He stopped, looking uncomfortable.

"I don't understand," Kerlek's eyes gleamed with curiosity. "What happened to the others?"

Phlox rubbed his lip. "Let me lead into this. All will become clear eventually." Phlox reached over and pressed a button. "Research into this began in the twentieth century. Human geneticists calculated that their race underwent a drastic population bottleneck at some point in the relatively recent past. Researchers then postulated that anything capable of causing such a massive population drop would leave traces in the geologic record, so they went looking."

"I take it they found something?"

"They did indeed my friend," Phlox assured him. "Observe the screen please." Kerlek obediently turned to face the monitor as Phlox adjusted controls. A picture of Earth as seen from orbit appeared, zooming down to center over a caldera lake near the equator.

Phlox intoned in his lecturer voice. "Human populations 70,000 years ago consisted entirely of roaming hunter/gatherer clans. Some kind of natural catastrophe was the most likely culprit. A sudden climate shift seemed like the only thing that could have affected so many small groups, so widely scattered across the surface of the planet, simultaneously."

"A sudden climate shift." Kerlek said. "Did such a thing occur?"

"Many times in Earth's capricious history," Phlox said. "For various reasons, some of which remain a mystery. In this case, a mountain exploded."

"I beg your pardon?" Kerlek stared.

"The area you are looking at is a volcanic cauldron named Lake Toba. Approximately 71,000 years ago, Mount Toba erupted with an explosive force equal to the power of nine photonic torpedoes being detonated at once." Kerlek couldn't stop the reflexive twitch. Phlox paused for a moment to give his friend time to collect himself, then continued.

"The resultant eruption expelled 2,800 cubic kilometers of volcanic ash into Earth's atmosphere, blocking sunlight and causing a drastic cooling effect. In addition, sulfuric acid haze deposited in the upper atmosphere presented a long term barrier to solar radiation. Fossil evidence indicates massive plant die-offs. Polar ice cores clearly show a sudden and sustained drop in planetary oxygen levels. Earth's average temperature plunged by as much as 12 degrees Centigrade and for a period of at least six full years there was no summer at all. Following this, the planet entered into the coldest Ice Age in Human history. For a thousand years, the ancestors of modern Humans endured cold such as they had never encountered before in their entire existence as a species."

"That sounds..." Kerlek took hold of himself. "That is most distressing to hear. I would imagine that the Humans of the time found adapting to the new conditions quite stressful."

"That my friend," Phlox's voice sharpened, "is where the story becomes intensely interesting."

&

Trip was chewing himself out.

"_A pair of gloves. A pair of gloves and a hat. Would that have been too much for you to pack along? T'Pol said that you could, quote, 'take any kind of garment that you were wearing at the start of the test', unquote. She repeated it several times, like she was trying to make a point, you numb skull. You knew perfectly well that she wasn't allowed to give you direct instructions on what to take or not to take. This is supposed to be a test of your judgment as well as your stamina. Fool!"_

He coughed and spat out another mouthful of dust. Might as well quit grouching about the sombrero. At least he did have the hood on his robe. But Trip was really, Really, REALLY starting to regret not having sense enough to fetch along a pair of work gloves. He stopped to take a slug of water and assess the situation.

A third of the night was gone, but he had finally caught sight of the cap stone that marked the beginning of the trail into the foothills. The cliff face to his right blended upward and became one with the rising landscape at a point three or four kilometers ahead of Trip's current position. The dirt under his feet was coarser and darker than before, and strewn with sharp edged rocks that looked volcanic. Half a kilometer ahead of him, the twin pillars rose with the cap rock perched shakily across their top. To Trip, it looked like one good sneeze would bring it down. He privately resolved to stifle any coughing fit while passing under it, no matter how dusty the trail might be.

Time to quit dreading it and bite the bullet. The discolorations were becoming more scarce as he advanced into the highlands, where bedrock rose closer to the surface. He needed to get the job done before he ran out of material to work with.

Trip sighed. Nothing on this planet ever came easy. Food, water, clothes, tools, mates. Everything had to be fought for. Everything. He shook his head and grunted in disgust. _"Quit whining Tucker. Step one, extract head from ass. Step two, point aforementioned head at target. Step three, acquire rope."_

He headed for the nearest likely looking patch, screwing up his nerve as he went.

The spot was about a meter across, and the same color as the dark volcanic sand. Only the texture varied, and that wasn't by much. If it weren't for Trip's Human night vision he might have walked right over it. Which was, after all, the whole idea.

In daylight it would have been perfectly safe to do so. The Marnik withdrew below the surface at the first touch of the sun's rays and let the loose sand at the mouth of its burrow cave in on top of itself. As long as the light shone Trip, or any other animal, could walk, sit, or even lay down and take a nap on top of the spot with perfect impunity. But when darkness fell and the cool night air awakened the creature from dormancy... things changed.

Trip grunted. Might as well get it over with. He needed rope to get through the mountains, no two ways about it. Out here, there was only one way to get it. He looked around and found a rock that looked serviceable. About half a meter across, and as heavy as he could lift and toss without getting dangerously close. Trip hugged it to his chest and sidestepped painfully toward the Marnik, watching with paranoid suspicion for any sign of movement.

As he closed in Trip could see the spot more clearly. Roughly ovoid, it was subdivided into quarters by two irregular cracks. The perimeter was bordered by a wide band of material twisted in a pattern reminiscent of a Celtic braid. If Trip let his eyes try to follow any single line he started to get dizzy and lose track of himself. He blinked and shook his head angrily. Tired and thirsty he might be, but that was no excuse.

"_Focus, Tucker,"_ he told himself. _"You are not here to admire the thing."_

Trip shifted his grip and raised the stone over his head in quivering arms. He bent his knees slightly, took a deep breath, and heaved it straight at the center of the oval spot. Then he instantly dropped and rolled frantically away as fast as he could. Behind him, he heard a dull crack like an huge egg splitting, followed by a snapping rustle.

&

Phlox continued, "In order to explain just how interesting, I must veer away from the Mount Toba disaster and give you a brief overview of Human evolution up to that point."

"By all means, proceed." Kerlek leaned back and interlaced his fingers.

Phlox paused a moment to gather his thoughts. "Considering the rapid, almost dizzying pace of recent Human progress you might find it difficult to believe that their development began very slowly. The story of early Human development is almost placid in its plodding progress."

"Placid?" Kerlek cleared his throat. 'Forgive me. Somehow 'placid' is not a word that I have ever associated overmuch with Humans. No offense intended to any Human of our mutual acquaintance."

"I doubt that any of them would be offended," Phlox flashed his trademark grin. "But facts are facts. More than two and a half million years ago an ape stood up on its hind legs and picked up a rock." He leaned over and manipulated the monitor controls. The picture of Mount Toba was replaced by a skull. "This was discovered by archaeologists on the continent of Africa, which is believed to be where the Human species originated."

Kerlek dropped his hands to his lap and leaned forward. Phlox punched another button and the picture was replaced by a new skull. "A million and a half years later that ape's descendants were peeling flakes off similar rocks and using fire to cook their meat. Note the slightly higher forehead."

"That sounds like a reasonable time interval," Kerlek objected. "Not unusually slow, nor unusually fast."

"True," Phlox allowed. "But they were not yet Human at that stage. Even though modern archaeologists class those creatures as members of the same genus as modern Humans, _homo_ , their brains were no more than half the size of modern Earth people. "

He continued. "You will note the sloping forehead and prominent brow ridges. Note also that the face extends somewhat forward of the brain case, and that the chin does not protrude. Another interesting fact is that sexual dimorphism was significantly more pronounced than it is in modern Humans, with males being up to 30% larger than females. This is typical of the broad category of animals that Humans belong to, called primates. It was also common among all Human ancestors, except for modern Humans."

Kerlek leaned forward looking fascinated. Phlox adjusted the controls further and another picture took form next to the skull. "This is an artist's rendering of the creature's appearance when it was alive. Over the course of time they gradually morphed into at least two, and perhaps more, distinct types of Human."

"There is a resemblance. But still..." Kerlek paused in confusion and looked at him. "But I thought you said that Humans were genetically homogeneous."

"They are," Phlox told him grimly. "The other types of Human are extinct."

"Ah," Kerlek nodded understanding and returned to looking at the screen.

"In any case," Phlox went on, "It wasn't until 500,000 years ago that a being came along that Earth scientists feel confident in calling fully Human."

Kerlek blinked several times and his forehead wrinkled. "Five... hundred thousand years?" He looked exceedingly puzzled. "It took them five hundred thousand years to go from savagery to the stars? That makes no sense at all, Dr. Phlox. Their own recorded history clearly shows that Humans advanced from crude animal powered agriculture, to starships, in less than five hundred years. Are you telling me that it took them 499,500 years to move from hunting and gathering to agriculture?"

"Hardly," Phlox said dryly. "This is where the interesting part comes in."

&

It was ironic and frustrating in the extreme.

T'Pol firmly maintained her grip on the third level of meditation and continued to focus on her adun. She could feel his mind clearly through the bond. She could also clearly feel the purity of focus that he had struggled so long and so hard to achieve. That clear and focused concentration on the task at hand was what prevented her from breaking into his conscious thought patterns.

Had she been a Human woman, T'Pol might have screamed with frustration. When she and Trip were separated in the early days of their bond, she could not even meditate in peace without finding him accidentally stumbling into her white space. Or as Trip consistently maintained, finding her interrupting his work with daydreams. But now, after much training and practice under T'Para's tutelage, Trip had become quite adept at focusing his mental processes and keeping the bond under control.

She wanted to hit something. _Now_ of all times, he had to start displaying discipline and self-control. Now, when she needed urgently to communicate with him, to warn him about the assassins that were pursuing him. _NOW_ he was exhibiting an almost Vulcan-like display of mental control.

T'Pol retained enough objectivity to detect the grim humor in the situation. But she felt no urge to laugh. Instead she returned to her effort with renewed determination.

&

"Ma-mek! Unt Ma-Mek!"

T'Lissa made a lightning lunge straight out of Hoshi's arms like a fresh caught trout, landing belly first across the low table and promptly taking off in a beeline for the far doorway, in the direction where her mother had disappeared half an hour earlier. Hoshi dove and snagged one ankle, barely in time to prevent a header off the far edge. She grunted with effort and pulled the determined little wrestler back into her lap.

"Honey, your momma is meditating. She will be back in a few minutes. OK?" Hoshi cooed somewhat urgently and rocked. T'Lissa was not impressed.

"Unt-Uh Hachi! Unt Ma-Mek!" The rampant hooligan displayed her Vulcan temper by baring her teeth and attempting to sink all five of them into Hoshi's wrist.

"Ow! Why you little!" Hoshi hissed and pried her wounded arm loose, examining it suspiciously for signs of blood loss. T'Lissa hadn't quite managed to get that far, but not for lack of effort. Foiled at making a run for it, and unable to chew her way free, the little one started a session of head butting and kicking, with a drastically elevated volume to advertise her growing wrath.

"T'Lissa." One word. The baby froze into place instantly. Hoshi blinked and looked up at T'Para, who had just walked in from the front door. The Eldest wore a look of bland non-approval which somehow managed to make Hoshi very nervous.

"_I screwed up. I made us look bad,"_ she thought frantically. _"I couldn't even control a little baby long enough for her mom to go meditate. T'Pol is going to be embarrassed at inviting me to stay. Shit."_

T'Para strolled into the room and placed her branch of fragrant herbal shrub on the table. {"T'Lissa, Daughter of my Clan."} The old lady spoke in formal High Vulcan as if she were addressing an adult. {"Thy behavior dishonors thyself, thy House, and thy Clan. Cease at once."}

Hoshi watched flabbergasted as the baby drew back and actually looked chastened. She turned and burrowed her face into Hoshi's shoulder, sniffling. A faint whimper of, "Ma-mek," emerged but that was all.

"Oh, Baby," Hoshi hugged her and patted her back. "It's going to be ok. Really it will. She'll be back soon. Meantime, do you want to play a game with me?" she asked brightly.

T'Lissa's head emerged from Hoshi's armpit looking mildly hopeful. "Kame?"

"Yes, a game," Hoshi confirmed. "It's a naming game. I want you to tell me the names of things. And the things that you don't know, I will tell you. Then you tell them back to me. Would you like to try that?"

"Yiss!" A happy squeal and a clap signaled a major mood change. The two of them spent the next twenty or so minutes pointing to various common objects and describing them. When they ran out of things in the main living area, Hoshi started carrying T'Lissa around the front hallway and kitchen, to her delight. T'Para watched and listened with deep interest, taking mental notes.

&

"In any case," Phlox hurried on, "The first Human ancestors began to use fire about a million years ago. From that point up to about 500,000 years ago, they developed several other innovations including improved stone tools, and the invention of watercraft. But their superficial appearance changed only slightly." Kerlek nodded.

"At this point," Phlox said with a sigh, "the fossil trail becomes tangled and very muddy. There is endless debate about exactly which bloodline led where. What is known is that one branch migrated northward out of Africa and into Europe, where they eventually evolved into a type of Human called Neanderthal. The remaining Humans, a type most generally referred to as Erectus, spread out across Africa and Asia. And then they sat there. For over 400,000 years."

"By 'sat there' you mean what, exactly?" Kerlek asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I mean that they basically lived their lives from generation to generation as they had always done," Phlox told him. "In Europe, Neanderthal Humans developed a largely carnivorous way of life focused around hunting the large animals that roamed their homeland. In 400,000 years they changed almost nothing. The tools and weapons that archaeologists have discovered and dated from 50,000 years ago are, in functional terms, equivalent to the tools and weapons that were in use more than 300,000 years earlier."

Kerlek stared, speechless. Phlox took a sip of his cooling tea and looked amused. "Doesn't sound like typical Human behavior, does it?"

Kerlek's mouth worked silently for a moment. He finally managed, "No. It does not." The Healer reached for the pot and refilled both of their cups. "What of the other Humans, the ones that had spread out to the other areas?"

"Essentially the same story," the Denobulan told him smugly. "The tools and weapons that have been unearthed in association with Erectus show no significant advancement in function. There are slight changes over time, but nothing that really makes a difference in the way they were used. Of course there were variations, just as there were slight regional variations in the morphology of the people themselves. But as a general rule everyone on the planet lived the same way, hunted and gathered using the same kind of tools and weapons that their ancestors had always used, for more than a third of a million years. There was no meaningful technological advancement at all."

"Astonishing." Kerlek returned his attention to the screen and stared thoughtfully at the long dead face, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You really mean... no improvements at all?" He sounded incredulous.

Phlox shrugged and waved a hand in a dismissive way. "It depends on how you define improvements. Archaeologists debate on the importance of whether the edge of a fist ax was made by beating on one side of a rock, or beating on both sides. Some people argue that it shows more sophistication when a tool is made by knocking chunks off a larger rock, as opposed to breaking the bigger rock down to size." He snorted and looked at Kerlek.

"But ultimately does it matter? Either way, what you end up with is a sharp rock. Experts might be able to tell the difference, but I have looked at visuals of the various specimens, and I can't see any functional advantages." Phlox said meaningfully, "That is... until Toba exploded."

"At which point," Kerlek filled in, "they were forced to change their behavior patterns to survive."

"No." Phlox said bluntly. "They did not. Neanderthal, for example, continued as they had always done. There is no evidence of any major disruption to their routine. The same for Erectus settlements throughout southeastern Europe and Asia."

Kerlek came as close to staring in shock as it was possible for a Vulcan to achieve.

"It wasn't the Toba eruption that caused them to change," Phlox told him significantly. "Something else was responsible. And it happened in Africa."

&

Trip heard the thrashing die down gradually. When things finally settled to the point of an occasional rustle, he gingerly lifted his head and peered over his arm.

The Marnik's vine tentacles lay spread out in a twitching sprawl around the center of the creature, where Trip's stone was still heaving back and forth. He raised up a little higher and saw that three sides of the Marnik's beak were crushed under the impact of his attack. The fourth side of the hooked beak flipped and snapped frantically at the granite chunk, trying desperately to either break or dislodge it.

Not much chance of that happening though. Trip finally started breathing again. The Marnik wasn't very powerful. It depended on its poisoned tentacles to wrap and stun the prey, then dragged its catch into the center where thousands of needle spines worked constantly up and down to rip and chew the helpless animal, while the four sided beak held it immobile.

Anything that still had the power of movement could readily shred a Marnik and fight its way free. Too bad nothing on Vulcan could withstand a Marnik's paralyzing venom.

Trip painfully dragged himself to his feet. _"Now the fun starts,"_ he thought. He scooped up a handful of smaller stones and started lobbing them underhanded at the tentacles, aiming for the tips. His aim wasn't the best, but he wasn't worried about it. All he needed now was perseverance. Eventually Trip managed to land rocks onto all of the vine tentacles, rocks heavy enough to keep them pinned to the ground while he went to work with his knife.

"_Whew," _ he thought, wiping his forehead. _"Finally. Took long enough. T'Pol would have been done with all of it and back on the trail by now." _ He grimaced as he recalled the evening when T'Pol took him out into the desert to demonstrate the technique. She briskly strode over the sand, probing every shadow with her light until Trip asked her to wait a minute. He had her turn it off and let his eyes adjust, then walked directly over to the nearest Marnik.

"_Is this one?" _ he remembered asking her. She turned the light back on and looked.

"_Yes, it is husband. And you are standing entirely too close to it. Back away at least two additional meters immediately."_ Trip made haste to comply.

T'Pol handed Trip the light and instructed him to observe closely. He observed closely all right. He had watched with slack-jawed disbelief when she picked up a boulder that Trip suspected would have ruptured him, and slung it forcefully into the center of the creature. She scored a perfect bull's-eye of course. No leftover beak fragments for her...

He shook his head and got back to work. First, cut off the tentacles from the main body of the plant. His little synthetic diamond blade went through the tough fibers like butter. Once that was done Trip relaxed. The Marnik was literally defanged now. As long as he had sense enough not to scratch himself on a thorn, or jump into the critter's mouth, he was safe. Then he had to cut off the main hooks at the far end of the vine tentacles, being careful not to touch them.

The next part was the reason Trip started berating himself again for not bringing gloves. The smaller thorns along each vine had to be sliced off individually, just like a trimming a rose. But instead of a small scratch, this briar would paralyze his autonomic nervous system and stop his heart in about three seconds. Whispering curses at himself in a monotonous undertone, Trip gingerly picked up the first vine between two fingers and got to work.

The job took a lot longer than it should have, but Trip finally ended up with a couple of dozen lengths of peeled vine, each about a centimeter in diameter and ranging from half a meter to two meters in length. He grabbed up the nearest one and started forcing the pulp out, like squeezing toothpaste out of a tube. It stank like three day old fish. Trip gagged his way through the whole pile, stopping only twice to heave his empty stomach a little.

Once that was done the worst was over. He debated taking a breather, but decided to go ahead and finish knotting them together while he was already nauseous. The vines were limber and soft while green. Once they dried, with the pulp removed, they would shrink and harden like rawhide. The knots Trip tied would bind the joints together as tightly as if they were welded, and he would have a continuous rope.

Trip remembered T'Pol demonstrating how strong the Marnik vine rope was - by insisting that he agree to rappel with her over a small cliff near their house. Both of them. One one single strand of knotted vine. He still shuddered at the memory.

As a last minute thought, Trip left out three pieces of vine, each about a meter long. Once the rope was done he found three fist sized stones and tied them securely to the ends of the short vines. Then he took the free ends of the vines and knotted them together several times to make a large, hard knot that he could easily grab.

Trip picked up his improvised bola and eyed it dubiously. "Oh well," he muttered, "nothing ventured, nothing gained." Trip brought his arm around in a circling motion and attempted to swing the bola in imitation of a movie he had seen once. The vine strands promptly flew apart and went their separate ways, one of them striking him on the thigh, one whirling around his ribcage and hitting him in the center of the back, and the third merely winding itself around his arm several times.

"Right. Figures." He sighed. "Why is it," he implored the night sky," that in books and movies the hero only has to pick up a weapon he has never seen before, and instantly he is an expert with it? Why can't I do that? Huh? It isn't fair I tell you. When I get up there I am filing a grievance with somebody, you hide and watch. See if I don't."

Trip turned and started coiling his rope in resignation while he glared at the bola. _"Maybe I can wave it at a Le'Matya and distract it long enough to let me make a power dive over the nearest ledge,"_ he pondered hopefully. _"Anyway, practicing with it will give me something to do besides missing T'Pol and T'Lissa."_

He tossed the coiled rope over one shoulder, his canteen over the other, picked up his useless "weapon" and headed for the cap rock. Fatigue was digging into his back and legs. Harvesting the Marnik had taken more time and energy than Trip expected. He devoutly hoped that he found a nice narrow ledge with a deep overhang pretty quick once he got into the hills. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

No sense letting it get him down though. Attitude was important in a situation like this. "Think cheerful Tucker", he muttered. "Think happy thoughts." He ran through a list of songs that wouldn't require too much concentrating.

&

Riley and Sanchez watched with deep interest as Trip did battle with the carnivorous plant. Riley in particular snorted and shook his head.

"What in the name of all that is stupid is he _ doing_ ?" he whispered. Sanchez chuckled.

"Don't jump to conclusions, take another look." Riley obediently lifted his binoculars and focused in on Trip, cutting and trimming vines.

"Oh. So that's it. I sit corrected." He glanced at Sanchez. "Guess I'M not as smart as I thought I was."

Behind and above the two of them, as they crouched behind a low boulder near the base of a talus slope, something moved. If either of them had been looking in that direction, they would have seen nothing specific. At most, they might have caught a flicker like heat waves. A bare trace of dust and pebbles shifted, looking as if something were being dragged across them. There was no sound.

Sanchez choked and put his face in his hand when Trip made his abortive swing. Riley grinned at him. "Remind you of home?" he whispered.

Sanchez nodded. "Yeah, it does. Of course, back home the gauchos ride hover bikes and use stun rods now. But my grandfather was big on preserving heritage. He was bound and determined that none of his grandsons were going to grow up not knowing how to use a bola. First time I tried to swing one I almost knocked myself out, just like Tucker there." Riley snorted.

"This whole ritual is a sack of shit, if you ask me. What's the point of making a Human do this anyway? I don't understand why the Vulcans make their own kids do it either. But a Human? Come on." He watched as Trip moved gradually closer to their hiding place. If he maintained his present course, he could pass within 20 paces of where the two SpecOps were hiding. They pulled back and got low, staying barely high enough to keep watch.

Suddenly Trip stopped. Both watchers froze, tension detailing every line of their bodies. Trip blinked and shook his head. They watched carefully as he stood perfectly still for a slow count of fifty before relaxing. Trip stood where he was for a moment longer. Then he started moving again, but for some reason he seemed more wary. The watchers saw him examining their boulder with particular attention, as well as every other potential hiding place in the area. Trip veered away from the talus slope, staying well out in the open and glancing back at frequent intervals.

The soldiers traded mystified looks and shrugs. Trip proceeded carefully across the sand, headed for the upright stones. His bodyguards followed in short bursts, moving swiftly from one point of cover to another in a low crouch.

On the slope above, the area of distortion drifted along, keeping pace with the three of them.

&

"Doctor Phlox," Kerlek said gently. The Denobulan stopped rubbing his eyes and raised his head with a wan expression. "I concede that this has been a fascinating excursion into Human evolution. Yet I cannot help but gain the impression that there is something that you are trying very hard _not_ to tell me. We came here, ostensibly, to discuss how Vulcan DNA might have been introduced into the Human genome. Thus far we have discussed almost every possible aspect of Human history except that subject."

Phlox gave him an unhappy look. "You are correct, Healer Kerlek," he finally admitted in a formal tone, punctuated with a sigh. "I have been dreading this, although it is not as if there is anything shameful about it. It is merely historical fact, well known and long documented. Nor do I believe that you will find it surprising, for a variety of reasons."

Kerlek raised both eyebrows. "After that statement, I fear that I cannot allow you to escape tonight until you have explained this – in complete detail."

Phlox grimaced, then nodded. "All right," he said in sudden decision, turning back to the controls of the viewscreen. Phlox pressed a few keys and a row of boxes appeared on the screen. In the first box, a picture of the early proto-Human hominid appeared.

"As I said before," Phlox mentioned, "this creature is estimated to have lived approximately 2.5 million years ago. Actually, they lived from 2 to almost 3 million years ago. They were were quite successful in their day. This being is considered one of the earliest sapient, or at least semi-sapient, ancestors of modern Humans."

Kerlek murmured encouragingly, "Understood." Phlox pressed another key, and a second picture appeared in the next box.

"This being lived about one million years ago, and is believed to have been the first ancestor of Humans to routinely use fire." He added a third picture to the row. "Approximately half a million years ago, they advanced to a point where modern Earth people are willing to call them, somewhat grudgingly I think, fully Human. This is Homo Erectus, aka Erect Man. But _look_ at them Kerlek."

The Vulcan Healer leaned forward and examined the row of pictures intently. "I can see the gradual changes," he remarked. "The skull is getting higher and larger, the jaw is shrinking."

"But," Phlox interjected. "Does it really look like a modern Human? Honestly?"

Kerlek absently scratched the bridge of his nose. "There are some differences in evidence," he said reservedly. "But as you said, it was half a million years ago."

"Then how about this," Phlox asked him. He added another picture to the series. "A hundred thousand years later, or about 400,000 years ago, Neanderthal Humans split away from Erectus and began their long sojourn in Europe. Note the close resemblance. Neanderthal maintained essentially the same appearance, and the same behavior patterns, throughout the entire lifespan of their species."

"As you have said before," Kerlek said, with badly strained patience. "So where did modern Humans come from?"

Phlox drew in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. "Erectus spent half a million years gradually spreading out to cover all of the available landmass of Eurasia. But a substantial number of them also remained in Africa. When Toba exploded and the Super Ice Age hit, so much of the planet's water was frozen and locked into ice that equatorial regions like northern Africa became desiccated. In fact, the climate around the Humans' original homeland looked very similar to Vulcan for quite some time." He shot Kerlek a look.

"You believe this to be significant?" Kerlek asked him.

"It might be," Phlox replied. "Obviously, Vulcan genetic material did not simply fly through interstellar space and implant itself into Humans. Some space faring race had to deliberately choose to do this. I have spent many long hours trying to figure out why."

"Perhaps they were conducting an experiment," Kerlek suggested. "Either for their own benefit, or out of simple curiosity."

"Perhaps," Phlox conceded. "Or perhaps they had kindlier motives. I personally would prefer to believe that theory, since we have no evidence either way. I hope that they came across the survivors of the Toba explosion, analyzed the situation, and realized that with such a reduced population the danger of genetic drift would virtually ensure extinction. They wanted to preserve the Humans so they looked around and, conveniently, a mere 16 light years away they found a humanoid race with a rich fund of compatible genetic material to borrow from."

Kerlek listened and nodded. "It seems as logical an explanation as any other. So you hypothesize that these... Preservers... if you will... decided to infuse the borrowed genetic material into the Humans living in Africa at the time because the climate there most closely matched that of Vulcan?"

"That is my preferred theory, yes." Phlox admitted. "Here, look at this." He added two more pictures to the display. One was very similar to the first Erectus visage, the next was a picture of a modern Human. "Erectus did change, very slightly, up to just before the Toba explosion. The next to last picture is of a creature that is the subject of argument. Some Human archaeologists still call it Erectus. Others insist that it is different enough to deserve its own name, and call it Afarensis. To me, the fact that it is similar enough to cause an ongoing argument means that the argument is meaningless. But there it is."

Kerlek tilted his head with interest. "I see. The brow ridges do appear to be somewhat smaller."

"Somewhat," Phlox acknowledged dryly. "But I invite you to examine the row of images as a group. Starting with the far left and working your way along to the modern Human on the end. Tell me, looking at the modern Human, who does he most resemble? His own blood grandparent, Afarensis? His own blood cousin, Neanderthal? Or a modern Vulcan?"

"The answer is blatantly obvious, Phlox," Kerlek said flatly. "Now." He stood up.

"Doctor Phlox," The Vulcan Healer looked down at the Denobulan and spoke with soft firmness. "It is equally obvious that you are almost desperate to avoid discussing something. You have spent the entire evening evading and diverting the course of the conversation into one side track after another. You are my guest and I will not press you, although I confess to disappointment. I can only ask that when we are able to speak again that you are willing to discuss the matter."

He stood looking down at Phlox, while the Denobulan rubbed his face with both hands and avoided looking at him. Finally, Phlox raised his head wearily and said in a sad voice, "Please sit down Healer Kerlek. I will tell you. Afterward, you will understand why I have been avoiding this. But I promise you, no more evasions. Please. Sit."

Kerlek looked narrowly at him for a moment, then nodded and sat. Phlox opened and closed his hands a few times, took a deep breath, and began. "After the Super Ice Age caused by the Toba explosion faded, the Humans in Africa took some time to replenish their population and re-establish themselves on the home continent." He stopped to rub his forehead and looked down.

"Then," he swallowed hard and went on in a rush. "Then they exploded out of Africa, slaughtering everything in their path." After a moment he looked up, to see Kerlek watching him with a Vulcan mask firmly in place. Phlox went on, "Previous Human breeds had drifted across the face of the planet. The modern Humans, the ones infused with Vulcan genes, flared and spread like wildfire. They tore across the face of the land, leaving devastation everywhere they went. Armed with new weapons – weapons that were more deadly by an order of magnitude. For the first time on Earth, Humans started making accurate, long range projectile weapons. The atlatl, then the bow and the sling. They transformed spear points from crudely tapped chunks into sleek, needle-like messengers of death. The mega-fauna, the huge animals that had shared the planet with Humanity's ancestors for all of their time began to disappear." He looked away again. "And so did the other Humans."

"You mean war," Kerlek said flatly.

Phlox nodded, looking sick. "The fossil record is clear enough. They flowed eastward across Asia almost unimpeded. There is no evidence that Erectus even slowed them down. Although there is evidence that modern Humans... interacted... with Erectus."

"Interacted?" Kerlek raised an eyebrow.

Phlox cleared his throat. "Remember I mentioned regional variations earlier? Among Erectus? Some modern Humans also display the same type of regional variations. Archaeologists have found modern Human remains in proximity to Erectus artifacts. One piece of research that I have read even claims to have evidence of ecto-parasite transference from Erectus to modern Humans."

"Then perhaps," Kerlek said hopefully, "it wasn't as bloody as you assume?"

Phlox looked at him. "Standard Human conquest practice throughout their recorded history, and I see no reason to believe that they have ever done it differently, is to capture a territory, kill or castrate all the males and any females who resist, and keep the surviving females as breeding slaves." Kerlek winced.

"In Europe, modern Humans found conquest a bit more challenging," Phlox told him. "It took them several thousand years to wipe out Neanderthal." Kerlek started looking grim, Vulcan discipline or no. "There is even fossil evidence," Phlox went on, "that Neanderthal may have won some victories. For example, in the Middle East there are signs that Neanderthal managed to drive modern Humans out for a brief time and take over the area. But they were not able to hold their victory, and ultimately they passed into oblivion, snuffed like a candle flame."

"I see why you were reluctant to tell me this," Kerlek said, after several minutes of silence. "Basically, you are saying that infusing Humans with Vulcan genes turned them from peaceful hunters into blood crazed murderers."

"No! Not at all! I mean," Phlox floundered, "not really. I mean..." He stopped for a moment to think. "The new Humans made many innovations in addition to new weapons. They invented sewing for example. And representational art, Kerlek. After the Vulcan infusion is when we begin to find paintings left behind on the walls of their cavern homes. Beautiful, elaborate works of art equal to anything done in modern times. Without the infusion, I am certain that Humans would have become extinct. You know perfectly well that groups of tiny family units, scattered widely across the surface of a rugged landscape, would be terribly vulnerable to the dangers of genetic drift."

"But it turned them into warriors," Kerlek said flatly. "Yes? Or no?"

"Yes," Phlox admitted sadly. "The mass graves are everywhere. Tangled skeletons thrown into pits together, with broken weapon points embedded in the skulls and spines. Walled settlements, with earthen dikes and surrounding moats to protect the interconnected homes inside. It has even been suggested that Humans developed agriculture as a method of feeding themselves inside their crude fortresses, since it was no longer safe to go outside and forage." He looked unhappy. "Some of the cave paintings I mentioned show warriors in military formations. Modern Human soldiers who examined the paintings have claimed that they can identify the specific formations. Apparently some aspects of Human land warfare have not changed in over 60,000 years."

"And thus, my earlier question is answered," Kerlek stood up and walked over to the window, looking out at the night.

Phlox looked at his back in puzzlement. "I am sorry, my friend. I don't recall the specific question you mean."

"I am referring," Kerlek told him without turning around, "to my curiosity as to why it took Humans so long to go from hunting and gathering to agriculture, and then to the stars. But now, it is obvious. It took them so long for the same reason that it took us so long. They were too busy killing each other to bother with maintaining a civilization."

Phlox looked sick, but nodded unseen. "I am afraid you are right. Every major attempt at building a civilization which Humans have undertaken, until now, has been destroyed by war. It is only in the last five centuries that they have managed to hold things together long enough to reach the stars."

Kerlek said distantly, "A failing that my people are well familiar with, Phlox. We are certainly in no position to judge them." He turned around. "But this does complicate things, I admit. When we present our results to the Science directorate, we will also be forced to tell them that as soon as Humans were infused with our blood, the first thing they did was embark on a campaign of genocide against their own kin."

He paused to consider. "The Science Directorate is not going to want to hear that. They will not want to hear that at all."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**_*Sigh* I guess I have lost my touch. Over 400 hits on this story so far and no one has liked it well enough to leave a comment. Maybe I should give up and quit. But I already have the thing written._**

* * *

**Purgatory – Chapter 4 **

**By Blackn****'****blue (aka Bluenblack) **

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Star Trek. I wrote this for fun.

**Note:** Vulcan terms used in this story were taken from the online Vulcan Language Dictionary, the Vulcan Language Institute, or I made them up myself. Feel free to copy, archive and/or distribute this story as long as you don't sell it. If I am not allowed to make money off it, nobody else is either. And that includes Paramount or anybody else associated with Star Trek. The Enterprise universe and characters thereof are theirs. My original ideas belong to me.

**Description:** This is the fourth story in my series that began with "For Want of A Nail" and continued with "In the Cold of the Night" and "Father to the Man". I suggest reading those before tackling this one. Otherwise many of the references won't make any sense.

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**Chapter 4**

He rapped the button with his knuckle, still hanging onto his sandwich with both hands. "Come in," Harris called out around a mouthful of roast beef on whole wheat. The door slid aside to reveal his expected visitor. Harris nodded Agent Samuel Fleming to a chair while he chewed vigorously and tried to swallow his last bite.

"Welcome home," Harris told him pleasantly, wiping a trace of mayo off his finger and tossing the napkin. "Sorry to be so rude, but I haven't had time to eat a proper meal in a few days."

"Not a problem, Boss," Samuel grinned. "Been there, done that. I know how it is." He always enjoyed getting a chance to use local expressions.

Harris nodded. "I know you have." He looked keenly across the desk. "How are things coming on the Soval Project?"

Fleming's face fell. "Not too well, I'm afraid. We are still applying leverage to Senator Wen, but so far he refuses to budge."

Harris waved it off. "Wen is a lost cause. But it doesn't matter now. I am pulling you off the Soval project for now. We have something else for you, something even more important."

Samuel let his eyebrows raise. "Whatcha got, Boss?" he asked with an eager smile.

Harris turned back to his monitor and started talking. "We got to digging into some records, and we found something that needs checking out immediately. It can't wait any longer." He keyed in a sequence.

Fleming, despite his training and experience, had no time to respond when the steel restraints flipped up and over his thighs. Another pair of steel bars swung around from behind the back of the chair, overlapping his chest and dragging him back. He stared at Harris in shock.

The Chief Operative of Section 31 allowed himself to relax a trifle. As much as he ever allowed himself to relax. "Harris. Done. Secure." The door opened again and two technicians stepped inside pushing a cart full of equipment.

"What did I do, Boss?" Samuel's voice held more than a trace of fear. "Whatever it was, I will fix it. My reports are complete, but if you need more information all you have to do is ask. I am not hiding anything."

Harris shook his head and looked at the tech on his left, who held a scanner to Samuel's neck. After a moment he pulled it back and laid it against the prisoner's chest. He snorted and told his assistant, "Blood." The second tech promptly grabbed a sample kit and withdrew a tube full of dark red fluid from Fleming's arm. He handed it to his supervisor, who slid the sample into a portable gas chromatograph.

"Well?" Harris demanded impatiently.

"Yeah," the lead tech told him. "There's an implant in his chest, just under the sternum. Looks like its only real purpose is to mimic a Human heartbeat. They even went so far as to inject him with some Human genetic material, and infuse enough iron into his blood to make it turn red, although the copper is still in there too. I don't have any idea why the iron isn't poisoning him. Maybe Vulcans are just tougher than we are when it comes to heavy metal poisoning.

"All right," Harris said. He pressed yet another button and a hidden door slid aside to disgorge three SpecOp troops in full battle armor. "Take the Vulcan Operative to Security Medical for full analysis," he ordered. "Remember he is top level Vulcan Intel, and probably one of their best. If he breaks, shoot to kill." They acknowledged the order soberly.

Samuel sat stone faced and silent throughout the entire process. Harris turned back just before he was removed and asked him, "Anything to offer?" There was no response. The prisoner merely stood quietly and submitted to being shackled and led away without resistance.

&

The comm went off in his ear again. Archer forced his eyes to focus on the chronometer. 0542 hours. Third time since they arrived at Vulcan that Trask had deliberately called during his sleep period. Twice before he had called after midnight, and now he had taken to calling before dawn. He was definitely going to have to kill him. It was no longer optional. It had to be either Trask or an admiral, and the comm officer on duty would have warned him to put some pants on if it was an admiral. A shipboard emergency would have sent someone in person to his door, plus the Tactical Alert siren.

Archer rolled over, disturbing Porthos in the process and provoking a whine. "Tell me about it," he muttered sympathetically. He brushed the hair out of his eyes with an impatient hand and reached for the monitor switch, blinking disagreeably.

It was Trask all right, and for once he wasn't smiling. That didn't really make Archer feel any better, but it didn't hurt. "Good morning, Captain," the ambassador said dully, rubbing a hand across his face and stifling a yawn. "Please accept my sincere apology for calling you at this unholy hour."

"That's quite all right, Ambassador," Archer replied in a firm, albeit glassy-eyed, monotone. "I was just about to get up anyway." He mentally added, _"In about an hour and a half."_

"Rather thee than me, Captain," Trask finally gave into a prodigious yawn. "My heart doesn't usually start beating until 0830. At the earliest. But T'Pau called and woke me up, and specifically requested that I, and I quote, 'contact Captain Archer at my earliest possible convenience on this matter' unquote. So here we are. Go get some coffee, I will wait."

Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut tightly and shook his head. "That's all right, Sir. I can get some coffee with breakfast in a few minutes. I realize that Vulcans get up with the sunrise. I don't think that they really understand the concept of sleeping in."

Trask grunted a pained laugh. "Too true. All right, let's cut to the chase. T'Pau told me that your Lieutenant Commander Reed will be entertaining a young Vulcan lady aboard Enterprise later today. Is that correct?"

Archer stiffened and sat up straight. Suddenly wide awake, he eyed the monitor warily. "Yes, Mr. Ambassador, it is," he replied slowly and carefully. "Is this some kind of problem?"

"No, no," Trask waved his arms. "Not at all. I just called to offer my assistance. If there is anything I can do to help make sure that this date goes off without a hitch, let me know. The resources of the embassy are at your disposal, Captain."

Archer blinked. "This is a new one, Mr. Ambassador. I surrender. You got me."

Trask chuckled. "It's simple enough, Captain. At least by diplomatic standards, it's fairly simple. T'Pau informs me that Lady T'Jala's Eldest Mother is a woman of substantial influence on Vulcan. I believe T'Jala is a member of Lady T'Pol's clan?" He raised both eyebrows inquisitively.

Archer winced and nodded, rubbing his eyes with a sigh. "Yeah, she is. We had dinner at her house last night." He raised his head. "I have known Trip for more than ten years. But after meeting that woman, my respect for him has skyrocketed to new heights. Any man who can survive having Lady T'Para for a grandmother-in-law is tough beyond belief. A formidable woman to say the least. "

Trask nodded judiciously. "I can well believe it. In business and property matters, authority passes down the paternal line on Vulcan. But when it comes to matters of family management, marriage negotiations, mediations, custody, disciplinary actions, or any other social issue the ladies rule with an iron fist. And they don't bother to slip a velvet glove over it either."

"So T'Para leaned on T'Pau, and T'Pau leaned on you," Archer speculated.

"That sums it up neatly," Trask yawned. "I trust that you and Commander Reed have a lovely evening planned for Lady T'Jala?"

"Actually," Archer said firmly, "I wasn't planning to get involved. I make it a policy to stay out of my crew's private business unless I am absolutely compelled to interfere."

"Better make an exception in this case, Captain," Trask told him. "T'Para's influence on Vulcan is wide and deep. Wider and deeper than most people realize, since she almost never uses it. When her husband became ill, she retired from the Security Directorate, went home to her little cottage and spent her time caring for him until he died. Afterward she ostensibly stayed out of public life. Note that I said 'public' life. I doubt that even the majority of her own family are aware of how many irons she has kept quietly in the fire."

"After meeting her, I am not surprised," Archer said. "But you have to understand something, Ambassador. This woman is trying to marry off her granddaughter, or whatever the relationship is, to my First Officer. I have no objection to entertaining a visiting dignitary, or even a visiting relative of a local kingmaker, but I am not about to throw one of my officers to the wolves in order to score diplomatic points!"

"No one is asking you to, Captain." Trask sounded exasperated. "Lieutenant Commander Reed has been around a few times, hasn't he? According to his unofficial record, he is a man of the world. From the reports I read, before he was transferred to Enterprise he was the kind of man who used to have a girl in every port. Surely a man like that can handle a naive young woman, at least for one evening."

"I don't know," Archer replied dubiously. "Handling Vulcans can be... challenging. They sometimes tend to be... um..."

"Eloquently put, Captain," Trask said drily. "They do indeed tend to be Um. That's why I offered any help I can give. But I am sure I don't have to draw pictures about what would happen if Lady T'Para became personally opposed to this upcoming exchange."

Archer winced. "No. You don't." He rubbed his aching head. "I think I do need that coffee, after all."

"In that case I will get off and let you go find some, while I stagger back to my bed," Trask said sympathetically. "Good luck and don't hesitate to call. Trask out."

Archer groaned and let himself fall backwards onto his bed like a brick wall toppling. It would have worked better if Porthos had not seized the opportunity to move onto his pillow. An observer would have been hard pressed to decide which of them complained the loudest.

&

The skin on the back of Trip's neck was tight as a drum. He had spent the better part of an hour scouting, and there was no other route available. He had to take the path directly under that cap rock in order to reach the trail into the mountains. He quickly reviewed T'Pol's frantic message.

_He had just finished coiling up the Marnik vines and started walking again when he abruptly found himself in T'Pol's meditation white space. That hadn't happened to them in more months than Trip cared to count. He glanced around and saw her sitting, looking relieved. He started to apologize._

"_I'm sorry, Hun," he began. "I must be tireder than-" _

"_Hush, Trip!" she demanded urgently. "We have no time! You did not do this, I did." His eyes narrowed. _

"_What's wrong? Something's wrong with the baby, isn't there!" Panic rose in his voice. "I can be back to the first check point by dawn-"_

"_No! Be silent!" She ordered. He clamped his jaws shut. One thing Trip had learned the hard way was that T'Pol would never try to give him a direct order unless it was a life or death emergency. "You are being hunted by assassins. They were sent by V'Rald. There are two of them. I do not know if they have found you yet or not. There are also six Humans, sent by Starfleet Security to intercept them. Our descendant, George Hopkins is here. He told me this. He also said that the Humans will fail to stop them. He intends to help you. But you MUST be careful!" _

An instant later she was gone. Trip had spent the rest of the night searching every shadow and cursing himself for not killing Koss when he had the chance. And V'Rald too, since he was standing right next to the sonuvabitch.

No point crying over milk that didn't get spilled, he reflected. The problem now was to get across that stretch of open ground, through the standing stones, between the scattering of boulders that littered the base of the slope, and up into the series of cracks and twisted ledges that marked the beginning of the trail. Once he was up there, Trip was confidant that he could evade any Vulcan for the rest of the night. Come daylight, he would have some kind of den burrowed out.

Trip started taking deep, even breaths to supercharge his tissues with oxygen. He braced his feet and got set. A voice came back from the basic training that Hayes had tried to force feed all of them in the Expanse. _ "What are you doing out there, Tucker? Dancing? If you are going to keep a steady, predictable rhythm then why not just stand still? Keep it random_!" His eyes narrowed on his objective. He took a final breath and exploded from cover, ducking and dodging from side to side in order to present as difficult a target as possible.

&

Kerla saw the Human break cover and lifted her dart thrower. Perfect. She had a clear shot. The foolish Human was wasting energy on evasive patterns. Somehow he must have become aware of pursuit. Unfortunate, but ultimately irrelevant. He was still going to be forced to pass between the standing stones, which would limit his field of movement to an area no more than 2.3 meters wide. All Kerla had to do was take a resting position in the center of the field of fire and wait. A hit anywhere on the Human's torso would result in a nearly instant kill.

Saren, carefully positioned across from Kerla, saw his partner lift her weapon and did the same. He repressed a sigh. There were times when his mate's fascination with these hunts disturbed him. Granted, the income from such work provided both of them with an extraordinarily good living. After all, he consoled himself, it was not as if they were hunting people. At Saren's adamant insistence, they had an unbreakable policy of never taking a contract on a Vulcan. This, among other reasons, was one of the primary things that allowed them to continue living on Saren's home world.

It wasn't as if he hadn't known what he was getting into. Bonding a Rihansuu in the first place implied that he was not going to be able to continue following the path of Surak. He knew that from the beginning and accepted it. He had decided that Kerla was worth it, and he still believed that. It had also bought him a highly placed position at the time with the Security directorate. Until the fall of V'Las. Even now, their contacts and their carefully hoarded stockpile of incriminating information kept them both protected from retaliation.

Back to business. Saren took aim at the space between the uprights. He decided to let Kerla have the first shot. That would make her happy. He twitched an eyebrow. One thing had to be admitted. When she came back happy from a hunt, she always became _ quite_ enthusiastic about making him happy. There were worse ways to make a living, he reflected philosophically.

&

George Hopkins looked over the situation carefully. Both Vulcans were in position. The first Human team was moving in on the Vulcan positions, so far undetected – but that would not last more than another few seconds. The second Human team, the one shadowing grandfather Tucker, was closing in behind him in a flanking movement.

It was too soon. Much too soon. According to grandfather Tucker's memoirs, the first actual conflict between the Vulcans and the Human SpecOps had not happened until after the second check point. Time to muck around with the time stream again. George shook his head. This was starting to become a habit. Since arriving in this period a year ago, he had made three significant and eleven minor changes to the time stream. His junior year professor in temporal mechanics would be ripping out his antenna by now.

George thought quickly. A fake Sandfire, that would do it. Even more so as it would be unexpected. The heavily armored environment suit he wore was adorned with a relatively huge backpack. Besides the masking field which blocked all sight and sound of his presence, it also contained a shockingly powerful generator, a portable tractor beam, and other assorted goodies. Fortunately, it was also equipped with grav neutralizers, otherwise not even Vulcan muscles could have budged it.

He activated the short range scanners and swiftly found what he was looking for, a wide area of loose sand. George grinned and powered up the tractor beam. He reversed the polarity and aimed it at the patch of sand, which instantly began to boil and surge. In a few seconds what had been as smooth as a table top was a solid wall of howling, swirling dust. He cranked up the power enough to make his home made storm look even more realistic, then started walking toward the base of the mountain trail.

The high pitched wind that he had manufactured made it impossible for George to pin down which of the Humans actually shouted, "Holy Shit!" He suspected it was grandfather Tucker though, since the SpecOps were too thoroughly trained to break discipline that way. Infrared scans showed him two Vulcan life signs heading off in one direction, two groups of Humans digging into the ground in two different spots, and one lone Human taking off up the mountain trail at top speed. He chuckled and continued forward, casually following the general direction that the Vulcans had taken. He was in no particular hurry. Once he located whatever cave the Vulcans decided to take cover inside, a few hours nap at the mouth of said cave before his next appointment would do him some good.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Purgatory – Chapter 5 **

**By Blackn****'****blue (Bluenblack) **

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Star Trek. I wrote this for fun.

**Note:** Vulcan terms used in this story were taken from the online Vulcan Language Dictionary, the Vulcan Language Institute, or I made them up myself. Feel free to copy, archive and/or distribute this story as long as you don't sell it. If I am not allowed to make money off it, nobody else is either. And that includes Paramount or anybody else associated with Star Trek. The Enterprise universe and characters thereof are theirs. My original ideas belong to me. The characters Chulak and D'deridex belong to Rigil Kent. I am just borrowing them briefly.

**Description:** This is the fourth story in my series that began with "For Want of A Nail" and continued with "In the Cold of the Night" and "Father to the Man". I suggest reading those before tackling this one. Otherwise many of the references won't make any sense.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Sam Fleming interlaced his fingers and pillowed them behind his head. He looked up from his bunk and mused on the pattern of ceiling tiles in this otherwise unmarked cell. He really hated being confined, although in his decades with the agency it had happened many times, under many differing conditions. _"You would think by now that I would be used to it,"_ he mused. _"At least here and now there aren't any rats."_

Something caught his attention suddenly. Sam had carefully cultivated reflexes, like all experienced agents. A part of his attention was always monitoring his environment, listening to background noises, sifting through sounds, smells, peripheral vision - carefully noting and analyzing everything that happened in his vicinity, just in case. It was a habit that everyone developed after spending time in dangerous environments, and Sam had spent more time than most.

He was confused for a few seconds, until suddenly realizing that it was the absence of sound and movement which had caught his attention. Instantly tense, he rolled off the bunk and slid over to the doorway of the cell. The silence hammered in his ears. There were three armed SpecOps in addition to the technicians in this part of the facility. The only thing that could suddenly cause them all to fall silent at once was either some kind of gas, or a perfectly coordinated attack. If it was gas, he was in trouble too. His backup emergency kit did not include a gas filter. And any attacker capable of penetrating this far into Section 31's most secure research facility was going to be a handful, even for him.

Sam could see nothing from the left side of the doorway. He took a deep breath, smelling nothing, and dove for the far side of the doorway. Crouching low, he looked up in disbelief at the door guard. The young man was standing in a comfortable slouch, one hand raised, with his mouth open as if in conversation. Sam followed the guards eyes and saw one of the female technicians smiling back at the guard, wearing an obviously teasing expression. Neither of them were breathing or moving at all. He grunted in disgust and stood up.

"Cute one, George," he growled. "Now turn off the cloaking field."

A chuckle provided his visitor's location. Sam turned and watched his colleague fade into view. George was grinning from ear to ear. "Just part of the checkup, Sam," he insisted. "I needed to make sure that they didn't damage your reflexes."

"Once this mission is done, I am going to damage a lot more than your reflexes," Sam vowed, returning to sit on the bunk.

"You'll have to catch me first, Kid," George riposted, and walked over. He pulled out a scanner and ran it over Fleming. More seriously, he continued, "The field will give us less than half an hour subjective time before I have to leave. How are you feeling? Have they done anything intrusive?"

"No," Fleming's lip twisted. "Paranoia can be useful sometimes. They are afraid of setting off some kind of self-destruct switch if they get too eager, and they don't want to lose me as a bargaining chip."

George nodded. "What did they think about the genetic analysis?"

"I told them I was shot up with a retro-virus that spread Human DNA through my system, and that I take anti-rejection drugs to keep it from poisoning me," Sam told him smugly.

George stared at him. "And they _bought_ that?"

"You have to remember that genetic experimentation has been taboo on Earth since the Eugenics war," Sam reminded him. "Not just illegal. These people look at it like they look at cannibalism, or pedophillia. Sure, the top minds here and now would know better. But the top minds don't work for the Section. These technicians lack the background in multi-species genetics to spot a hybrid. They have never seen one before."

"_But you're three quarters Human!" _ George shook his head in disbelief and continued scanning. "What's this drug they put in you?"

"Scopolamine," Sam mentioned off-handedly.

"Oh," George snorted. "Figures. They try anything else?"

"Sleep deprivation," Sam grinned. "They tried sensory deprivation but I kept going to sleep on them." They both laughed.

"Hold still," George told him. He placed a hypo at the junction of Sam's neck and shoulder.

"Ouch." Sam twisted to look at him. "What is that?"

"Quit twisting. It's a transponder. It boosts the signal from the chip in your pump," George notified him. "Just in case we need to make pickup on you from inside a shielded area."

Sam looked resigned. "So much for being traded back to the Vulcans, and tragically lost in a shuttle crash. Don't tell me, His Lordship Daniels has pulled another brilliant one out of his derriere?"

"This one actually comes from headquarters," George told him. "It turns out that dear old Grandpaw threw yet another boot in the works – one that nobody noticed until just now."

"That's not funny, George," Fleming glared at him. "That ancestor of yours is already the locus of more temporal anomalies than anyone short of Jim Kirk. Now you are trying to tell me he caused another one?"

"Not directly," George hastened to assure him. "It's not his fault. It's V'Rald, and those assassins he hired. One of them is a Romulan deserter. You remember?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "The woman. What was her name... Kerla?"

"Yep." George put his medical equipment away as he explained. "Turns out that she was originally scheduled to become an invaluable source of information about the Romulan fleet." Sam winced and rubbed his forehead. "You get the picture now? Her mate, Saren, gets busted and to buy him loose and a chance for both of them to start over on a colony world, Kerla offers to spill her guts about everything she knows. And she knows a lot, since she grew up in a noble house."

"But Charles Tucker's memoirs..." Sam let his voice trail off.

George nodded emphatically. "And the brass have decided that Grandfather's memoirs document the time line that we are definitely going to follow. Which means that we need to find an alternate way to shortcut the coming war. Otherwise it won't be pretty."

"It was far from pretty in the original time line," Sam sighed. "How much worse can it get?"

"The new projections," George told him, "have the war continuing unabated for twenty-three years."

"Oh shit."

"It only sputters to a close," George finishes somberly, "When a Human kamikaze squadron manages to break through the Romulan defenses. All but two of the ships are destroyed, but those two manage to make it to Romulus. They both dive at the planet and deliberately shut down their antimatter containment fields. The death toll will be in excess of five billion."

Sam clenched his teeth and grabbed a hand over his mouth, making gagging noises. It took him a couple of minutes to regain complete control. Hoarsely he forced out, "What's my new assignment?"

George informed him, "We planted some evidence in your apartment that makes it look like you are addicted to peyote."

"Peyote?" Sam looked blank.

"It's a Terran cactus," George explained. "For Humans it's hallucinogenic. For Vulcans it's a moderately powerful narcotic, and promotes extreme physical dependency. There's a black market in the stuff, but the supply is limited. It only grows on Earth, due to trace element requirements. And here is the bad news." George held up a final hypospray, which he had left out of the supply bag. "Before I leave I am going to shoot you up with this. It mimics short term peyote withdrawal, while at the same time immunizing you against actually developing an addiction when you are exposed to the stuff. Sorry." His expression was sympathetic.

Sam looked depressed but nodded. "I see where this is headed. You are giving Harris a lever to use on me. What am I supposed to steal for him?"

"Nothing," George said. "You are going to go into withdrawal. Harris will wait until he thinks you are really hurting, so ham it up good. Then he will start the carrot and stick routine. Gradually let him worm enough out of you so that Human engineers can accelerate development of their deflector shield and tractor beam technologies."

"That's it?" Sam looked relieved. "Simple enough."

"According to the analysts, that will be all it takes," George told him. "Earth already has force fields. Right now they are trying to fine tune the hardware to make overlapping fields that will cover a ship's hull. They are this close," he held up two fingers about a centimeter apart, "to getting there on their own. One nudge should be enough. The tractor beam will be almost as simple. Once they have the deflectors, all they need to do is modify the same emitter hardware to form a tube instead of a plate, and then generate an artificial gravity field inside the tube. Piece of cake."

"And this will be enough to shorten the war?" Fielding asked hopefully.

"Supposed to be," George replied. "They re-ran the analysis at headquarters, factoring in Humans having deflectors and tractor beams, along with the Andorian engine upgrades. All else being equal, the war should end in less than four years, hopefully much less, with the final decisive battle being fought at Cheron. Fleet Admiral Chulak will be killed - leaving D'deridex with a clear path to the Praetor's seat, right on schedule."

Sam looked sick with relief. "Some withdrawal symptoms are a small price to pay for that. Speaking of which," he looked over at George, "what are the symptoms I should expect?"

"Nervous twitches, mainly," George told him. "Some loss of coordination. Nothing disabling." He glanced at the chronometer on his wrist. "Time to head out. We will be making random spot checks from now until pickup, but whoever drops in will probably stay cloaked. You know how to signal if you need anything. Are you set for now?"

"I suppose I am." Sam told him. He shook himself. "At least this beats hell out of the Roman arena."

"Someday," George told him, reaching for the controls on his suit, "you _ have_ to tell me that story."

"Only if you are buying," Fleming told him.

&

Trip was really starting to hate the planet Vulcan, and the foothills of the Sas'A'Shar mountains in particular.

The ravine cut directly across the trail. It was five meters wide, seven meters deep, and stretched just far enough in both directions that he would never be able to work his way around it before full daylight. Trip grabbed a boulder and levered himself to his knees, then sat down in the dirt at the edge of the gash. He rubbed the back of his hand across his face and sighed. At least the sandfire had petered out. It just figured that he would draw the short straw. If anyone on the planet could get hit with a storm during the off season, it would be him, Trip Tucker, the living rabbit's foot.

So now what? Climb down and then back up? Find shelter on this side for the day? Start going around and go to ground somewhere along the way? Trip sighed and hung his head, stealing just a moment for deep breathing and rest. His chest was sore from gasping in the thin air. Even after months of getting acclimated, he wasn't fully used to Vulcan's dessicated excuse for an atmosphere. Maybe he never would be.

A stone rolled down the hill and struck the side of Trip's foot.

His head snapped up and caught a blur of movement in his peripheral vision. No time to think. No time to weigh options, or judge distance. No time to do anything but react.

Trip dove forward and over the edge of the ravine, rolling into a ball and taking the impacts of rocks and ledges on the way down. A cloud of choking dust flew up around him, blinding him and choking out what little breath he had left. The noise of gravel and stones rolling and rattling tore into his ears, and almost drowned out the snarl of the frustrated le'matya when she missed her slashing swipe by mere centimeters.

Trip slipped sideways and felt a strangling yank. Instantly he was halted, half propped and half dangling against the side of the ravine, with the coiled loops of his homemade rope digging into his chest. The rest of the rope coil passed under one arm and around the side of his neck, looping over the upthrust chunk of granite on which it had caught to break his slide. Below him, the ravine continued downward to the razor slicing chunks of broken flint at the bottom.

The le'matya paced angrily back and forth along the rim of the ravine above him, snarling in righteous fury over this interloper that had dared to threaten her den. Every instinct shrieked at her to go down and disembowel the creature. But the slope was too steep, even for her. Meanwhile, her cubs were squealing in hunger and she had not killed for them since before sundown. They needed more meat, but how could she leave them with this strange smelling thing nearby? It was maddening.

&

Hoshi was industriously stirring pancake batter when T'Pol entered the kitchen. "Good morning," she greeted the Vulcan with a somewhat forced air of cheerfulness. "I hoped pancakes and loural berries would be appropriate for breakfast."

"Entirely appropriate," T'Pol approved, moving to dig out the berries and start peeling them. "Did you rest well?"

"Yes, I did," Hoshi answered truthfully. "I was surprised and grateful for the humidifier. I really appreciate it. I must remember to send T'Para a formal thankfulness gift when I get back to the ship."

"No need, Child," the old lady in question moved into the kitchen to join them, looking precisely the same as she had when they bade her good night the evening before. "You are a guest. It is my responsibility to see to your comfort. A formal gifting is neither required nor appropriate." The old woman carefully lowered herself to a stool and started making tea. Hoshi started a tentative movement in the direction of the pot and got waved off. "Tend to your mixing bowl, Girl, and I will tend to this. But I wish to ask you if you have formed any opinions about T'Lissa's linguistic development."

"Actually, yes." Hoshi picked up the spoon and started stirring vigorously. "This is all preliminary until I get back to _Enterprise _ and confirm things with the official references." Both women nodded. "But from everything I checked, T'Lissa seems to be significantly ahead of schedule for verbal development, based on Human standard benchmarks."

"That is most agreeable news." T'Pol's chronic stiffness seemed to loosen just a little. "What are the benchmarks to which you refer?"

"Well, for example," Hoshi turned and carefully poured a measured dose of batter onto the griddle, catching the last drip with her mixing spoon. As the mixture started to sizzle she continued, "At her stage of physical development, most Human babies are using words, and a significant percentage are making simple two word sentences." She grabbed the spatula and stood poised, waiting like a lioness at the waterhole for the prey to be ready for her to pounce.

"That appears to describe T'Lissa'a current level," T'Para murmured, activating the flame under the teapot and settling back to regard the two younger women. T'Pol just raised her eyebrow and continued peeling berries, confident from long experience that Hoshi wasn't finished yet. She was correct.

"Not really," Hoshi responded respectfully but firmly. She she carefully worked the spatula under the edge of the incipient fritter and gave it a quick twist. The golden disk took wing like a gull, spun a 180 in midair and landed neatly back on the griddle. "T'Lissa is well beyond the point of simple two word sentences. Not only is she making them, she is stringing them together into multi-sentence statements. For example, last night she told me, Uh-uh rest. Not tired. Want cookie." Hoshi triumphantly proclaimed, "and _that, _ Lady T'Para, is a three sentence paragraph. It wasn't a fluke either. She forms those kinds of statements routinely. Her communication skills are definitely well ahead of schedule."

"In every measurable aspect, this child meets or exceeds the acceptable standards for both species," T'Para mused.

"She sure does," Hoshi agreed. "I can also testify that her physical coordination is well ahead of Human average. I can only imagine what Trip goes through trying to chase her." She grinned and reached for the serving platter, flipping the first pancake from the griddle to the platter. Then she reached for the bowl and started pouring another dose of batter.

"She is beginning to climb," T'Pol announced dolefully. "Trip warned me that this might occur, since he was prone to such behavior as a child. As soon as T'Lissa was able to support herself on her legs, she began trying to scale the sides of her crib. When placed on the floor, she is now determined to reach the top of every piece of furniture in the house."

"Oh my," Hoshi chuckled. "I had a cousin like that. He once climbed up on top of a bookshelf and crawled into the ductwork. Then he got himself stuck. My aunt and uncle had to call the fire department to come and remove part of the wall to get him out." She snorted and kept grinning until she saw T'Pol's face. "Sorry." Hoshi fought hard to wipe off the smirk.

"It could be worse you know," a male voice interjected. Three heads turned in surprise. The faces of T'Para and T'Pol lit with recognition, while Hoshi continued to looked both surprised and puzzled. But since neither of her hostesses offered any objection to this newcomer's presence, she shrugged and continued with her batter.

"You have an undeniable talent for appearing unannounced and unexpected, Son of my Clan," T'Para chided him. Her words had a stern ring to them, but her tone was not really disapproving.

"I realize this, Eldest Mother," George said apologetically. "But I needed to speak with the three of you, and this seemed like the time most likely to provide a quiet interval without interruption."

"The three of us?" T'Pol glanced at Hoshi warningly. George winked and grinned, causing Hoshi's jaw to drop open in shock.

"Yeah, I am afraid that's correct, Grandmother," he said calmly. "I have been authorized to bring Lieutenant Sato into the loop regarding the situation, since she is scheduled to become rather intimately involved with the upcoming events."

"_Grandmother?"_ Hoshi squeaked. T'Pol sighed and nodded. George grinned again and sketched a bow.

"Dr. George Hopkins, at your service ma'am," he said in courtly tones. "I have the honor of being the great-to-the-umpteenth grandson of Charles and T'Pol Tucker. And since you wouldn't be Human if you weren't wondering, I am approximately as much Terran as I am Vulcan, give or take a bit either way. I am also a small part Bejoran, with a trace of Trill. Neither of which means anything to you of course."

She stared, transfixed, while her pancake burned. "You're a time traveler, like Daniels."

"Yes, Ma'am," he responded promptly. "Please put out the fire," he added, even more promptly.

Hoshi started and jumped to scoop the charred remains of her charcoal fritter off the griddle. While she worked on cleanup, George turned back to T'Pol and braced himself.

"What upcoming events do you anticipate that will require Lieutenant Sato's participation?" T'Pol demanded.

George ran his fingers through his hair in a singularly Human gesture. "You already know what is coming, Grandmother. Don't you? You understand why it is imperative that Earth obtain the engine upgrades that the Andorians are offering?"

T'Pol's expression darkened. "Yes." She said nothing more. Hoshi looked curiously at her, while T'Para gave her a calculating examination that boded ill for later on.

George relaxed. "Agent Daniels confirmed that when the two of you left that night, you went to a room together and spent some time consulting. But I couldn't be absolutely certain how much she told you." He looked directly at her.

T'Pol returned his gaze. "We melded. She told me everything." George looked surprised.

"Everything." He swallowed. "All right." He shook his head hesitantly. "I didn't realize...well. Hopefully it won't screw up anything. At least it hasn't so far."

"I have no intention of using my information to do anything that would provoke intervention by the Temporal Authority," T'Pol informed him. "I prefer things as they are now."

"All right then, the situation here and now is starting to get complicated," George explained. "Diplomatic and political interests are tangled up with the economic rivalries involved in this. More specifically, certain members of the High Council have a vested interest in maintaining Vulcan's trading advantages. They have decided that allowing Earth to obtain upgraded warp systems would be inadvisable at this time."

"V'Rald." T'Pol came as close to a growl as a civilized Vulcan was capable of doing.

"Among others," George admitted. "V'Rald sees this as an opportunity to overcome the damage that Grandfather caused with his confrontation at the Gathering. But he is not alone in this effort, by any means."

"I hate to sound stupid," Hoshi broke in, "but could someone explain this to me? In words of one syllable or less?"

George smiled. "You spent your career in academia, didn't you?" Hoshi nodded uncertainly. "OK then, here it is in a nutshell. For centuries Vulcan has enjoyed a near monopoly on trading routes in this part of the alpha quadrant. Vulcan dominated in one sector, Tellar dominated in the adjacent sector. When the Andorians broke out into this part of space, things started heating up and we wound up fighting over trade routes and territories. No matter what else you may hear, the real reason for the conflict between Vulcan and Andoria was over trade competition. But eventually the situation stabilized, more or less."

"I get it," Hoshi looked thoughtful. "That's actually the most sensible explanation for the conflict that I have ever heard." T'Pol looked uncomfortable.

George continued, "The High Command spent a century keeping Earth from pushing their way into the forefront of things and making matters even worse. But now, if Earth gets faster ships, Vulcan will be in for the economic fight of its life. For the first time in generations, Vulcan traders will be facing bare knuckle competition from people who are not only used to it, but actually relish it. See why they are nervous?"

"I'm an idiot," Hoshi muttered. "None of this even entered my mind." She groaned. "No wonder Captain Archer and Ambassador Trask look so worried."

George looked at her, then shifted his attention to T'Pol. "So... Grandmother... we need you to steal something."

Every set of female eyebrows in the room started levitating. T'Pol cleared her throat. "You want me to steal something?" T'Pol said, with placid equanimity. "Very well, what do you need me to steal? Something from the High Council? The Science Directorate perhaps?"

"Nope," George said cheerfully, "nothing from the Vulcans."

"Indeed?" T'Pol looked surprised. "From the Andorians then?"

"Wrong again," George grinned wolfishly. "We want the two of you to steal something from _Enterprise."_

&

Lieutenant Commander Reed adjusted the collar of his dress uniform again and coughed into his fist. He could feel vibrations from the docking procedure through the soles of his boots. When Eldest Mother T'Para told them to expect T'Jala at 1830 hours, she never bothered to mention how the young lady was supposed to get there. Archer and Reed had briefly discussed offering to send down a shuttlepod. Then they decided not to tempt fate. As it turned out, this was just as well.

The Security Directorate's suborbital pursuit craft completed docking procedures and signaled readiness to match atmospheres. Reed pressed the activation button for the airlock and entered his personal access code. The inner door slid aside to reveal the outer hatch of the Vulcan craft. There were no visible controls or latches. Only a hairline seam marked the otherwise flawless metal surface. Reed waited with reasonable patience while the Vulcan pilot ran his checks to ensure that the seal was tight, and made sure that those sneaky Humans hadn't prepared some nasty surprise for his esteemed passenger. Finally the sound of a breaking vacuum seal cued Malcolm into assuming a formal posture.

"_Grim,"_ was the first thought that hit Malcolm's mind when the door slid aside. The woman who stepped through was half a head taller than Reed, and built with typical Vulcan slimness. Her expression was as closed as T'Pol's had ever been at her worst. But even in the most tense situations, Reed reflected, T'Pol's demeanor had always been tempered by something... sympathetic? A person always got the sense from T'Pol that she was at least willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Not this lady. Malcolm would have bet against the word being in her vocabulary.

He filled his lungs slowly. The captain had explained the diplomatic importance of the situation. So be it. When duty called, a Reed always answered. It was only for a couple of hours anyway. At least he wouldn't have to face another rubber chicken dinner. Chef had prepared a top of the line vegetarian meal.

T'Jala stopped at the entrance and waited. Malcolm stepped forward, carefully maintaining a bland expression, and raised his hand. "Peace and long life, Lady T'Jala. I am Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed, Executive Officer of Enterprise. Welcome aboard our ship."

T'Jala returned the gesture. "Live long and prosper, Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed. I am T'Jala, daughter of Serl and T'Mari. I have come in compliance with the Eldest Mother's instructions. I am told that we are to assess each other as potential mates." Her tone contained not the slightest trace of enthusiasm.

Reed couldn't help wincing. "With deep respect, Lady T'Jala, you must understand that we Humans do not conduct things quite so... abruptly. We take time to get acquainted with each other, spend an extended amount of time together, before even considering such a thing."

T'Jala relaxed almost imperceptibly. She looked Reed over carefully. "I begin to suspect that this meeting was instigated by the Eldest Mother on her own initiative."

Reed was flabbergasted. "Uh... yes?" He thought in appalled disbelief, _"She thought this was MY idea?"_ Malcolm cleared his throat. "During a dinner party at her home last night she informed me that you would be visiting." To fill the suddenly awkward silence he blurted, "Would you like a tour of the ship? She may not be impressive by Vulcan standards, but we are quite proud of her."

T'Jala inclined her head. "Certainly. I confess to curiosity about this craft, ever since my krei T'Pol accepted assignment here."

Malcolm sighed. _ "All right. There's hour killed, easily. The captain swore he would help with me dinner, so we can count on another hour there. Get her out of here by 2030, so she can be back home by 2130. I can do this._" He started briskly describing the basic deck plan of the ship, leading T'Jala toward engineering to start off.

T'Jala watched closely as crewmen passed them. As the two of them walked along, she paid close attention to the deck, bulkheads, fixtures and fittings. "I am surprised," she finally remarked.

"About what?" Reed looked at her.

"Based on my examination of other Human made buildings and vehicles, I expected _Enterprise_ to be more ostentatious," she said. There was almost a note of approval in her voice. "Thus far, the layout appears to be strictly utilitarian. Logical, but not what I expected."

"We Humans are just full of surprises," Reed quipped.

"Indeed," T'Jala told him gravely. "It is precisely this quality that make my people so concerned about you."

He stopped and took a deep breath. _ "Control yourself._" Malcolm managed a tiny smile and started walking again, conscious of T'Jala's eyes. "I can only suggest," he told her, "that your people cultivate a flexible mindset. We are out here now, and we are staying. You are going to be dealing with us for a very long time to come, like it or not."

"A fact which some of the more conservative members of our society still struggle to accept," she mentioned. "But I have always been interested in Humans. I suspect that to be the primary reason that I am here," she added acerbically. "In addition to the fact that my original betrothed had the misfortune to perish in battle against the Andorians."

"Well, look on the bright side," Reed offered. "If nothing else, you are getting a tour of the Human flagship, and a chance to interview some Humans in person. Think of it as an educational opportunity."

T'Jala raised an eyebrow. "Of course." They walked in silence until they reached the turbolift. T'Jala immediately perked up and started quizzing Malcolm on the details of its operation.

Malcolm felt a surge of ironic amusement. "You are an engineer?" he asked.

"By no means," she replied. "Merely interested in everything."

"Well, in that case," he started an in-depth explanation of the turbolift system. Which led, by meandering routes, into a discussion of other ship's systems and inevitably, the ship's weapon systems. The turbolift slid to a stop and the two of them stepped out into the new corridor, too engrossed in their conversation to notice the looks they had started to draw.

"You use photon torpedoes?" T'Jala's eyebrows were climbing into her hairline. "I had no idea that Human containment systems were sufficiently advanced to allow anti-matter warheads."

"Actually," Reed told her cheerfully, "we stole them from the Klingons."

"Stole?" she asked slowly, blinking.

"Yes," Malcolm gave her a mischievous look. "Some time ago we encountered a Klingon ship, damaged and adrift in the upper atmosphere of a gas giant. Their crew was unconscious from illness. We stopped to help them out."

"And took the opportunity to help yourself to their technology while you were there," T'Jala said flatly.

He shrugged. "It's not as if they were gushing with gratitude," Reed told her. "We saved their ship and their lives. And in return they demanded we surrender and called for reinforcements. We had to make a run for it. I don't think a few scans were an exorbitant price for the help we gave them." He added, as they came to the entrance to Engineering, "We didn't actually take any torpedoes. Just enough data to produce some cheap imitations. Our warheads aren't as powerful as the original Klingon torpedoes yet. But we decided some was better than none. " Malcolm keyed in the access code and the doorway opened.

"How very pragmatic," T'Jala muttered. She looked around the dimly lit confines of this Human engine room with reserved fascination. Unlike a Vulcan vessel, this warp core was installed horizontally. A series of control consoles were spaced around the perimeter of the room, with Human technicians busily moving back and forth. The entire area hummed with purpose and energy. A young Human female approached them, wearing the same rank insignia as Malcolm Reed.

"This is our Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Commander Anna Hess," Reed introduced them. "Anna, this is Lady T'Jala - a visiting dignitary and a relative of T'Pol."

"Welcome aboard, Lady T'Jala," Lieutenant Commander Anna Hess flashed a massive Human smile. "I gather Malcolm is giving you the grand tour. Anything in particular that you would like to see?"

T'Jala was intrigued. "You are remarkably open about such a sensitive area. Do you permit all visitors such unrestricted access?"

Hess laughed. "No way. But one of T'Pol's family is almost a member of the crew." T'Jala was lost for a response to this one. "So is there anything that interests you in particular?"

"Your lithium matrix," T'Jala told her. "If it is not too much trouble, Lieutenant Commander."

"Right this way," Hess started walking. "By the way, call me Anna."

"I am honored," T'Jala inclined her head. "Please feel free to call me T'Jala as well." She mentioned politely, "I understand from the Eldest Mother that krei T'Pol's mate Charles is acting as an intermediary between yourself and Kov, son of Kuvak."

"Say what?" Anna stopped and looked puzzled. "Kov? I haven't heard from him since we docked with their ship a couple of years ago. What do you mean by intermediary?"

Reed coughed. "I seem to remember T'Para mentioning something about this. But she didn't go into specifics."

"Trip?" Anna asked blankly. "Kov?" She looked back and forth. "Let's go into my office for a few minutes. This bears discussing."

Reed looked bemused, while Anna seemed half stunned and half fascinated as T'Jala explained Vulcan arranged courting traditions. "So you are telling me," she finally said, fighting back a grin, "that Trip volunteered to play matchmaker?

"So it would seem," Malcolm scratched his nose and pursed his lips, trying hard to keep from making any potentially offensive remarks.

"Do you have Trip's... no. He is in the desert isn't he? Do you have T'Pol's number, Malcolm?" Anna requested. Reed dutifully recited it and she jotted it down. T'Jala looked somewhat uncomfortable.

"If you are offended, I offer apologies on behalf of our clan," she told Anna. "I am certain that no-"

"I'm not offended," Anna snorted, then let it break out into a soft laugh. "But in a case like this I prefer to do my own courting, thank you. Let me tell you something about your cousin-in-law, T'Jala." She looked at the Vulcan woman with amusement dancing in her eyes. "He is a great guy. He really is, as good a man as you will ever find. And when it comes to nuts and bolts engineering, or warp theory, he is as sharp as a razor. But Trip Tucker is a pure idiot when it comes to relationships. If T'Pol hadn't forked him to the plate and made him marry her, he would still be dancing around the issue today - hemming and hawing, too shy and uncertain to come out and tell her how he really felt."

"Indeed? Is this typical of Human males?" T'Jala looked curious.

"Unfortunately, it's not unusual," Anna sighed. She gave Reed an evil look. "So if you do decide that Malcolm is worth your time, you will probably have to take the lead."

"Noted," T'Jala responded shortly, while Malcolm locked his jaws and glared daggers at Hess and her dancing eyes.

"Perhaps we should continue the tour," Reed suggested, as politely as possible. "We still have several decks to cover, and T'Jala hasn't seen the lithium matrix yet."

"Oh, sure thing. Let's do that." Hess led the way out of her office, chatting and pointing out various control systems as they went along.

The rest of the tour passed without unexpected incidents, to Malcolm's devout relief. T'Jala found Chef's tiny hydroponics bay especially interesting. As a professionally trained chef herself, the idea of being able to grow one's own spices aboard a starship appealed to her immensely. She noticed instantly how Malcolm became energized as soon as he set foot inside the Armory. The brisk pace he had maintained throughout the rest of the tour slowed, and he lovingly described each part of the weapon storage, loading and firing systems in loving detail. She was reminded forcibly of Ganlas. It seemed Security officers were of a universal type, regardless of race.

Malcolm timed the tour almost perfectly. The two of them arrived at the captain's mess just as Archer was about to sit down. Both Reed and Archer were dreading dinner the way a pre-schooler dreads vaccinations. After the fiasco at T'Para's house, neither of them wanted to think about what to expect.

To their surprise and relief, nothing catastrophic occurred. T'Jala actually complimented them on the quality of the food. "Your chef is quite adept at preparing Vulcan dishes, Captain," she said.

"I will pass that along to him," Archer told her graciously. "He's had a lot of practice. Chef always tried to make sure that T'Pol got proper variety in her diet when she was aboard, naturally. Then after the Vulcan embassy was bombed, we had quite a few families aboard while they waited for the Cairo embassy to be prepared. Chef really enjoyed the chance to expand his repertoire during that time."

"I can well imagine," T'Jala replied thoughtfully. She forked up a bite of fruit salad. After swallowing she went on, "That brings up another topic for consideration, Malcolm." She looked across the table. Captain Archer noted with a touch of wry amusement that Reed had at least managed to make it to a first name basis with his prospective fiancee. "The bombing was conducted by the same group that was responsible for creating the child of Charles and T'Pol, was it not? The same group that later tried to kill the baby as part of their propaganda campaign?"

Malcolm's jaw tightened. "Yes," he said tightly. "It was. But the ones responsible were apprehended, eventually. They are currently sitting in a maximum security prison, where I for one hope they remain for the rest of their lives."

"But is it not the case that you apprehended two more members of this same group aboard _ Enterprise, _ on your way to Vulcan during this trip?" T'Jala held his gaze steadily.

"_I can see where she is going with this."_ Malcolm reflected. _ "She is just as aggravated by this situation as I am, but she doesn't have the option of telling the Matriarch of her clan to take a hike. So she is fishing for ammunition that she can take back and use to get out of this. Not very flattering, but let's be reasonable here. I'm a strange alien that she met a couple of hours ago."_

"If you are asking me whether there are still Humans that bear animosity toward non-Humans," Malcolm said slowly, "I must acknowledge that there are. The members of Terra Prime do not represent the general opinion on Earth. But they are capable of offering a threat."

"Noted." T'Jala chewed quietly. "In the event of our marriage, would you be willing to settle on Vulcan, as Charles Tucker has done?"

Malcolm coughed as his water went down the wrong pipe, and he grabbed a napkin. She waited patiently while he recovered his aplomb. "I... uh... I expect to spend the next several years in space, Lady T'Jala," Malcolm tried to re-insert a note of formality into the conversation. "My chosen career path makes it unlikely that I will be settling anywhere until retirement. When I am old." A sudden inspiration hit him. "Which of course will be fairly soon by your standards."

She nodded. "Certainly another point to consider. But then, my original betrothed was forty-two years of age when he was killed in battle." She looked at Malcolm. "How old was your oldest ancestor when they died?"

He squirmed and looked plaintively at Archer, who tried to think of a way to divert the subject. Meanwhile Malcolm hemmed and hawed a bit before admitting, "So far that would have to be my great-grand uncle Edgar. He is 137, assuming that he hasn't passed away since my last communication from my family."

"I do not wish to be intrusive," T'Jala told him, "but since we are to evaluate each other perhaps it would not be entirely inappropriate to exchange data about ages. You are surely less than fifty years of age, am I correct?"

"Significantly less," Malcolm told her wryly. "I am thirty one."

"Really?" T'Jala looked pleased. "I am fifty three. If we both avoid disease or violence, we might reasonably expect a century of marriage."

"I..."

"Although, as you pointed out, we must certainly exchange significantly more information before a final determination can be made," she took a sip of tea.

Archer jumped in frantically. "You realize, Lady T'Jala, that _Enterprise _ is primarily a ship of exploration. Our missions typically leave us out of touch with our homes for extended periods of time. Unfortunately, it is also true that exploration is not the safest career path a person can choose." He paused and left the words hanging in midair, hoping she would pick up connection.

T'Jala nodded. "Of course, Captain. You are concerned that since I have already lost one betrothed to violence, it might be considered illogical of me to choose another who also follows a high risk profession."

"Exactly," Archer sighed in relief, and caught Reed giving him a look of profound gratitude.

"The simplest solution," T'Jala went on, "would be for Malcolm to shift his career path to the Vulcan Security Directorate." Both men's jaws dropped open and they stared openly, nonplussed. She continued, oblivious to their stunned expressions. "My clan has extensive connections to the Security Directorate, several members of which hold relatively high positions. It would be a simple matter to obtain a posting for Malcolm, especially given his prior experience with Starfleet."

"That's it!" Reed exploded. He threw his napkin down on the table. "I have been as patient as-"

"_Lieutenant Commander Reed."_ Captain Archer's voice sliced like a sword blade. Silence hung heavy while nobody moved. Then, quietly, Archer said, "As you were Malcolm. Lady T'Jala, I am afraid that Malcolm has made a commitment to Starfleet. That commitment cannot simply be broken on a whim, even if he were willing to do so."

"Which I am not," Malcolm said between his teeth. "T'Jala. I realize that on Vulcan women may rule the family roost. But I am a Human Starfleet security officer, and that is what I intend to remain. For you to come aboard and casually assume that I would be willing to throw away my entire career is ludicrous."

T'Jala watched his rant with deep interest. "So you would place your career ahead of your responsibility to your mate?"

"I didn't say that!" He stopped to breathe hard. Archer opened his mouth, only to find T'Jala's raised hand poised a few centimeters in front of his face.

Malcolm continued. "But any mate _I chose _would never be the kind of woman to demand that I give up my career!" He sagged back against the chair, with his irritation draining out and being replaced by worry. The darkening expression on his captain's face did nothing to relieve Reed's forebodings.

T'Jala looked unaccountably pleased. "Excellent."

"What?" Reed's expression was a complex mixture of belligerence and confusion.

T'Jala explained, "I wanted to see if you would give me an honest reaction, Malcolm." She favored him with the faintest hint of a smile. "You have been the perfect host ever since I arrived, and both of you have spent the entire meal straining yourselves to avoid any subject that might upset me. So I decided to say the most provocative thing I could think of. I needed to learn if your fear of offending the Eldest Mother was greater than your self-respect."

Reed's nostrils flared, but he held his silence by a monumental effort. T'Jala watched the shades of colors crossing his face with fascination. Captain Archer cleared his throat.

"Lady T'Jala," he offered. She looked at him politely. "Would you care for some more food or drink?" She gestured a negative. "In that case, if you have finished your food," he gestured at her empty plate, "I believe that the meal is concluded. Perhaps we should escort you back to your ship?"

"Certainly, Captain." She stood up and they joined her. "It has been a most educational visit. Malcolm, would you mind escorting me privately? I believe that you and I should discuss something."

"Of course, with your permission, Captain?" He nodded and they left the room, leaving Captain Archer to sink back into his chair and reach for the comm button.

"Archer to kitchen."

"_Chef here, Sir."_

"Have we got any of that brandy left?"

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Purgatory**

**By Blackn'blue (aka Bluenblack)**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Star Trek. I wrote this for fun.

**Note:** Vulcan terms used in this story were taken from the online Vulcan Language Dictionary, the Vulcan Language Institute, or I made them up myself.

**Description:** This is the fourth story in my series that began with "For Want of A Nail" and continued with "In the Cold of the Night" and "Father to the Man". I suggest reading those before tackling this one. Otherwise many of the references won't make any sense.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Trip forced his diaphragm to expand. He could swear he felt his rib cage moving, but there didn't seem to be any air entering. The rope across his chest was cutting a notch into his breast bone.

His groping heels and outflung arms finally caught some traction, enough to ease the pressure a little. Millimeter by millimeter, Trip worked his way up the slope. He managed to hook one arm over the rock stub that had caught his fall and paused to breathe.

"I hate this planet." he thought with vicious sincerity. Once the spots started to clear from his vision, Trip continued the process of working his way uphill until he could straddle the stub like a saddle. He coughed out a tub full of dust and pulled the coil of Marnik rope off his shoulder.

Above him, the disgruntled le'matya continued pacing and growling. Trip figured it was probably cussing him out. He muttered back at it while untying the knot that secured his rope coil and unrolling it. "Yeah, right, you gator-weasel. If you think I'm coming back up there you can just kiss my hairy Human ass. Go find one of those Vulcans that are hunting me if you want some early breakfast."

At the sound of his voice, the le'matya hissed. Then the predator threw back its head and vented a whistling scream of territorial challenge. Trip ignored it, instead concentrating on looping his rope around the rock stub and dropping the length of it down into the depths of the crevice. He had more gripping things to deal with than a miffed le'matya at present.

By the time he worked his way, hand over blistered hand, to the bottom of the cut, Trip was ready for period of hibernation in some secure den. Since there was no den, he settled for yanking the rope down and coiling it up before he surveyed his options. Uphill the crevice narrowed rapidly, providing a darker and cooler place to lurk, which therefore meant that it would be more popular as a local hangout. Downgrade the crevice gradually widened out. Within half a kilometer the slopes were flat enough that Trip could scramble up them on all fours if he absolutely had to.

He headed downhill, aiming for a pair of big rocks that looked just about the right distance apart. Having learned from bitter experience, Trip carefully stretched the emergency blanket over the top of the rocks this time. He stretched it out taut and weighed the edges down with heavy stones. When he finished, Trip had a serviceable imitation of an awning that was just big enough for him to sit under and open at each end to let the breeze flow through freely along the floor of his mini-canyon, a vast improvement over his last effort.

Blessing T'Pol for insisting that the blanket be camo colored to match the rocky terrain, he crawled in and collapsed like a burlap sack full of oysters.

&

_"I can NOT believe I am doing this,"_ Hoshi thought. She stepped into the turbolift and headed for the bridge, feeling like she was wrapped in a numbing cotton blanket. _"This is insane. We are going to get caught. We are going to spend the next thirty years in prison."_ While her mind ranted and gibbered at her to stop the madness, her body calmly continued on its planned path.

The bridge door opened to reveal the beta shift, just as she expected. In orbit around a friendly world as they were, the total bridge crew consisted of Ensign Parker in the center seat. He looked surprised and stood up, offering her the captain's chair. "Lieutenant. I wasn't expecting anyone this evening."

She shook her head and walked past him toward the Engineering console. "I'm just dropping in to check something," she told him with a pleasant smile. "I've been noticing some signal bleed over in the microwave band lately, and I wanted to use the Engineering console to send a few test pulses to make sure my board isn't causing the problem. In fact, you could help me if you are not too busy."

"Too busy?" he asked her incredulously. "Ma'am, you are the answer to a prayer. I was fighting to stay awake and seriously considered starting a fire just so I could have something to do putting it out."

"I came just in time then," Hoshi laughed, "I doubt the captain would approve of scorch marks on his seat covers. Come over here to my station." She led the way and ran through the sequence of putting the Communications console into diagnostic mode. "Now, what I'm going to do is send a series of signals over from the Engineering console. I need you to watch the board and tell me which of these indicators light up, what color they show, and whether they blink or hold steady. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," Parker told her with a smile. He watched in admiration as Hoshi swayed across the bridge. Regulations were clear enough, but she wasn't in his chain of command. Not really...

"All right," Hoshi broke into his daydreaming. "Ready?" Parker obligingly bent over the board, which took his eyes off Hoshi long enough for her to slip the data cartridge out of her sleeve. She palmed the tiny piece of plastic and said, "This should cause the incoming message light to blink green. Does it?"

"Sure does," her eager helper replied. Hoshi continued the process, sending an increasingly complicated series of signals over to Parker and keeping his attention fixed on the Communications board. He paid no attention at all when she slid the data cartridge into the Engineering board and pressed five keys in quick sequence.

"Looks like everything checks out," Hoshi announced. "Thanks, Ensign." She gifted him with a dazzling smile, which made the whole shift worthwhile as far as Parker was concerned.

Hoshi managed to hang onto the smile all the way to the turbolift. But as soon as the doors closed she sagged against the wall and let her head fall back against the bulkhead with a dull thump. _"I was not cut out for this cloak and dagger stuff,"_ she thought irately._ "I love the code breaking. I really enjoy the puzzle of deciphering a message, or a working out a new encryption key. But field work is emphatically not my cup of cocoa. Malcolm can have it, and welcome to it."_

She nodded as politely as she could manage to the crewmen that she passed on the way to her quarters. It wasn't until her door finally slid shut behind her, and she pressed the locking button, that Hoshi started to relax for the first time since breakfast. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Then she turned around and bumped into George's chest.

Hoshi shrieked and jumped backward a full meter from a standing start. Her right foot flashed out in a kick to the outside of George's left knee, while her right hand made a simultaneous chop for the side of his throat. He managed to get a hand up in time to block the chop, but his leg wasn't so fortunate.

"Ow! Crap, Woman! Are you trying to cripple me?" Her uninvited visitor hobbled painfully over to the bunk and eased himself down, rubbing his leg and scowling.

Hoshi stood in place, concentrating on breathing and trying to keep her heart from exploding out of her chest. She closed her eyes and demanded, "Will You - Stop - Doing That."

"Most definitely, Madam, I assure you," George swore fervently.

"Some people don't appreciate being snuck up on," Hoshi told him.

"I gathered that," George replied. "I sincerely and humbly apologize, and beg forgiveness. Please don't hurt me anymore, Ma'am." Hoshi locked her teeth together and glared at him for a moment. Then she pulled out the data cartridge and tossed it to him. George caught it with a delighted grin.

"Wonderful. Phase One completed already? I trust everything went smoothly?"

"Reasonably smooth," Hoshi sighed. "Assuming that I don't burst a blood vessel before this is over with."

"I have complete faith in you, Lieutenant," George told her, standing up with some difficulty. "After all, I have the advantage of hindsight. I know exactly what you are capable of accomplishing." He gave her an impish smirk, which came very close to earning him another smack on general principles. "Grandmother is taking care of Phase Two as we speak. Get some rest so you can be ready tomorrow morning for Phase Three." He manipulated a control on his belt and blinked out of existence.

"I doubt that I'll be ready to brush my teeth tomorrow morning," Hoshi muttered bitterly, heading for the shower.

&

T'Pol stepped through the doorway and immediately moved to one side, remaining near the opening while she surveyed the area. Her two personal bodyguards were already in place, both of them having taken positions that would allow clear fields of fire as well as easy routes for retreat. The rest of her assigned escort was continuing to move into position around the perimeter of the establishment. In 3.7 minutes she saw Centurion T'Volj emerge from the shadows at the far side of the main room and give the all clear sign. T'Pol's senior bodyguard, Sarel, looked at her and tilted his head - indicating that she was cleared to advance at her own will.

T'Pol re-ran the most basic of the preliminary Kohlinar disciplines once more. She had not entered this particular establishment in many years, not since she had changed her career path to enter the diplomatic service. In her previous life this type of operation would have been entirely routine, but she was discovering that more things than merely her physical reflexes had atrophied during the intervening decades.

She reminded herself that the personnel accompanying her were of the highest caliber. The Eldest Mother had been most explicit in her instructions to Ganlas.

{"Son of my Clan,"} she had told him seriously in formal High Vulcan, {"I must ask of thee a boon. Be warned. What I ask goes beyond what might be considered the ordinary duty of a Son to his Clan."}

{Do not concern thyself with that, Eldest,"} Ganlas had answered phlegmatically. {"Ask. If it lies within my power I shall do it."}

{"I am sending T'Pol on a mission for the good of the Clan,"} T'Para had told him, truthfully if not completely. {"She will be entering unusual danger and will require guards who possess qualifications over and above the standard Security Operative training."}

Ganlas shot T'Pol a penetrating look. He held her eyes and asked, {Please specify."}

T'Pol took it upon herself to answer him directly. {"I will need Intelligence Operatives."}

{"Now see thou, Ganlas,"} T'Para continued, {"Why I did hesitate to ask this of thee. The task that I have set for T'Pol is of critical importance, not only for the Clan but also for all of Vulcan. And indeed, for Earth as well. But I can offer no proof of this, I can only ask for thy trust."}

{"Thou hast it, Eldest,"} Ganlas told her, bowing low. {"Thou has always had it. I will make arrangements to obtain as many agents as possible as soon as I can. I presume that it is thy wish to use Clan members exclusively?"}

{"Yes, most definitely,"} T'Para said. {"Let none but our own be trusted for this task."}

T'Pol moved forward into the tavern. The Cloud of Dreams (which made a mockery of its own name in ways that few other taverns could ever hope to achieve) was constructed on three levels. The central level contained the bar and a rather nasty smelling kitchenette, along with some unstable looking stools. This saucer shaped central platform was supported and suspended in midair by flaring arches that sprang out around the perimeter, both rising and falling, connecting it to the upper and lower levels that surrounded the central platform in two rings.

T'Pol scanned the tables around the upper ring but saw no sign of her prey. Not surprising. Her contact was a wary veteran who had survived 157 years in the underworld of interstellar machinations. He was not likely to show up first and plant himself in the open where he could be easily found.

She settled at a nondescript table in a dim corner, which happened to be nearest one of her operatives. Her two personal bodyguards moved up and quietly assumed positions at tables nearby. Everyone settled in for the wait. T'Pol anticipated a fairly brief meeting the first time, just enough to explain what she had to offer and what she wanted. These kinds of negotiations tended to be protracted. And of course, the customer always wanted some evidence of good faith.

There was movement on the lower level. A faint vibration against the bone behind her ear told her that her escort had gone on alert. Only on alert however, not on battle ready. Her contact had arrived with his own escort.

He came up the steps looking much as he had during their last meeting so many years ago. The deeply hooded robe still bore a blue stripe along the edge, although she doubted that it was the same garment. Wryly, T'Pol realized that her own garment was still a dull gray-brown, just as it always had been during these assignments. Habit was a powerful force indeed. A potentially dangerous one, she reflected, if one became too predictable.

Her appointment made a slight gesture and his bodyguard stopped at the top of the staircase. He continued forward, with only the slightest movement of his hood to indicate that he noticed her guards. As always, his face was completely hidden in darkness within the hood. "Kartoum," he stopped at the far side of the table and bowed slightly. "As lovely as ever I see," he jibed.

"Larai," she replied. "Please, be seated." While he pulled out the chair it occurred to her that neither of them had ever seen the other's face, and both of them always used voice distorting equipment. How then had each managed to deduce the gender of the other?

"I had thought you dead long ago, Kartoum," Larai told her. "Where have you been hiding yourself and who are you hiding from?"

"Do you really expect me to tell you?" T'Pol asked flatly. Larai broke into soft laughter. His hood moved slightly, indicating that he was shaking his head.

"Of course not," he admitted, still chuckling. "Still, it would be engrossing to know. I wonder how much your head would be worth to the right people."

"Considerably more than yours would be," T'Pol told him in a chilly tone, "after my associates had finished with you."

"No doubt," Larai waved his hand in a disarming gesture. "Since you are back here, you have obviously taken care of the matter, whatever it was. So now we have new business to take care of?"

"Yes." T'Pol drew a small instrument from beneath her robe and placed it on the table. She waited. Larai folded his hands and stared at it for 23.5 seconds. Then he turned and snapped a brief phrase to his guards in Orion trade lingo. He turned back toward the table and gestured assent. T'Pol activated the dampening field, isolating their table from all monitoring devices.

"I have been informed that one of your clients is the Tellarite Hegemony. Is this correct?" She waited. He scratched the table idly with one finger.

"I will neither confirm nor deny," Larai finally replied.

"Excellent," T'Pol told him. "In that case, I have a client who wishes to sell the Hegemony an extremely high value item. However, it is imperative that this sale be conducted with absolute discretion."

"And who might your client be?" Larai asked, affecting a note of boredom in his voice.

"Earth," T'Pol replied. Larai froze. Both hands tightened into fists.

"You expect me to believe that?" He whispered harshly. "You are insane! What kind of suicidal idiot do you take me for?" He stood up with a jerk, shoving the chair backward and causing five pairs of hands to slap five holsters.

"And if I prove it?" T'Pol challenged. "If I merely wanted to kill you, I could have easily made a simpler arrangement."

He stared at her, unmoving. "What game are you playing, Kartoum? Is this the price you were asked to pay before they would let you come back? To get rid of me?"

"No, Larai. I left by choice. I was not asked any price to return. Sit back down and I will answer the question you asked me when you first arrived." She waited tensely. Then she added. "Are you not still curious? Would you not like to know where I have been and what I have been doing all these years?"

He slowly pulled the chair back and lowered himself. "We have done business together many times, Kartoum. You have never been less than meticulously truthful. Be warned. If this is treachery, no one will leave this place alive. Not your people, nor mine."

"As I would expect," she told him. "But I intend no treachery. I am sure you are aware of the negotiations that are underway between Earth and the Andorians for a technology exchange?"

"Of course," Larai snapped impatiently. "And the Vulcans don't like the idea. Go on."

"Then you can well imagine that Earth is reluctant to complicate the matter further at this time." She leaned her elbows on the table. "The Humans greatly desire to obtain the Andorian engine upgrades. This is common knowledge, and they make no secret of it. They also wish to maintain good relations with their allies, the Vulcans. This is also common knowledge. Why do you consider it suspicious that they prefer to conduct additional trading in a circumspect manner?"

He tapped his finger tip against the table for emphasis. "Because You... Do Not Work... For The Humans."

T'Pol slowly reached up and lifted the edges of her hood, drawing them back just enough to display her face clearly for a moment. She let the hood fall back into place and said softly, "I do now."

The one who called himself Larai stared for an extended period of time. T'Pol did not even bother to monitor it. Then he began to snicker. The snicker became a chuckle, which grew into a full throated guffaw. He fell back against his chair and laughed himself breathless, pounding on the table all the while. His bodyguards watched uncertainly, while T'Pol and her escort waited it out with unflappable aplomb.

"Oh, this is choice! This is superlative! This one is worth a round of drinks in any bar in the quadrant!" He finally choked his way back into control. "You! Kartoum! I- You-" He stopped to catch his breath. One hand disappeared into the depths of his hood, presumably to wipe his eyes.

"Do you believe me now?" T'Pol asked him. "Are you prepared to accept that I actually do speak as a representative of Human interests?"

"Yes," he said decisively. "Yes, certainly. You are almost a goddess to them now, after what you did in the Expanse. And your own mate is one of them. Of course I believe you. What I can't believe is that I have been drawn into this. My grandchildren will be certain that I am spinning a fable when I tell this one to them." He took a deep breath. "All right. Let's slice this to the bone. I need to get moving. What do the Humans want from the Hegemony?"

"Hulls," T'Pol told him. "Tellarite metallurgy is superior to Human. Earth wishes to trade for Tellarite ship hulls."

Larai nodded slowly. "I can understand this. It makes sense. Better hulls to go along with the better engines they are trying to buy from the Andorians. No wonder they don't want the Vulcans finding out about this. And what do they have to offer? The Tellarites already have transporters. Good ones."

"True," T'Pol acknowledged. "But their weapon systems are not as powerful as some."

Larai held very still. "What exactly are you talking about? Tellarite disruptors are extremely powerful. With their reinforced hulls, they can afford to install oversized reactors. This gives them the capacity to mount disruptors that can split a planetoid."

"But their torpedoes are substandard."

Both of them sat in silence for a few seconds. Larai broke the silence by asking softly, "What kind of torpedoes do the Humans use?"

With equally softness, T'Pol replied, "Antimatter warheads." Larai placed both hands flat on the table and took a deep breath.

"Now how did the Humans persuade Vulcan to give them antimatter warheads?" he wanted to know.

"They did not," T'Pol assured him. "These were the fruits of independent... research... efforts that did not involve Vulcan."

"Meaning they stole them from someone else," Larai said with amusement.

"I neither confirm nor deny," T'Pol promptly responded. He snorted.

"As long as they got them honestly, by their own efforts, I can respect that," he said. "Begging for charity is despicable. But if they had the courage and resourcefulness to go out and scrounge up the knowledge on their own, accepting all of the risk that goes along with the effort, then they earned it." Larai paused. "Whose technology did they," he coughed significantly, "research?"

T'Pol considered briefly. "Klingon."

A low whistle emerged from the darkness of Larai's hood. "Everyone who does business with Humans swears that they are insane. Evidently it is true."

T'Pol stood up. "I trust that you will deliver the message without undue delay."

"Of course," He replied, standing also. "This has the potential to be the most interesting game I have played in a generation. I look forward to the next move. Until we speak again, Kartoum." He gave her a formal bow and turned to leave, gesturing to his guards.

&

Heat waves were dancing across the rocks. Trip closed his eyes and took another sip. His whole existence consisted of a steady progression of tiny sips. Take a sip and hold it until it disappeared. Take another sip and hold it until it disappeared. Take another sip...

He had made it into first level meditation for a while. But second level was out. He had to stay alert. Alert. Yeah. He felt real alert. Trip turned his head to look out the other end of the shelter. His vision swam. The gravels were still falling. O' course they were, stupid. They got hot and expanded and fell over. Hot... expand... Basic therm... therbodmamks...

He took another sip and closed his eyes. Shit. It was so hot. The sun was up but not high enough to hit the bottom of the crevice yet. It would only hit his shelter for the middle part of the day. But down in this hole there wasn't much air moving. Wasn't much air moving through him either. His chest was heaving like he had run a triathalon. But he couldn't _taste_ anything going in or out. It felt empty. Like when he and Hoshi had that virus. Breathe but nothing happens. Not good.

Hard place. Hard planet. Hard people. Hate this planet. Not the people. Good people. Most of them. Not Koss or his uncle... what was that bastard's name? He couldn't remember. Couldn't remember... hated him though._ "Gonna kill 'em. Gonna kill 'em both once I get outta here. Shoulda killed Koss the first time I saw the sonuvabitch. Wanted to. Wanted to real bad. Damn fool I was. Why didn't I just tell her I loved her?"_ He put his head down and shook it, trying to force air in.

V'Rald. The name crystallized in his mind. Then the face came to him, sneering at him across the table at the Gathering. The feel of the knife in his hand, and the look of fear in Koss's eyes when he put the edge under the coward's chin. It had felt_ so good._ Trip hoped that T'Pol never realized just how much he wanted in that moment to go ahead and make the cut. But she probably did. She knew him better than he knew himself.

But she still loved him anyway. How crazy was that?

Dizziness. Head hurting. Trip took a longer mouthful of water this time. He held it until it disappeared again. Didn't seem to make any difference what size mouthful he took. They all disappeared instantly.

Gravels falling again. Real loud ones this time. And again. More of them this time. And more again. They kept falling. Was the place caving in?

Trip raised up on his elbows. When had he laid down? He blinked. Looked out. Wrong end. Turned his head. Something moving._ "Shadow. Can't see. Too bright. Sun high. Too much sun. They found me."_ He pulled his knife and somehow got the blade open. Sat looking at it. He could barely close his fingers around the grip._ "I'm dead."_ There was no fear in the thought. Not even any regret. Just a calm understanding. He was too weak to fight. Too weak to run. Too blinded by the sun to evade any pursuer. He was finished. He might get in one stab. Trip took a deep breath and tried to tighten his fist around the knife. He thought of V'Rald's face, and Koss. Summoning the anger for strength.

The shadow was getting closer. Trip eased backward, sliding out the far end of the shelter and into the sunlight. It hit his back like a phase cannon. He locked his teeth to keep from gasping in pain.

"Grandfather. Stop! Please!"

The voice froze Trip in place. It couldn't be. "Please, it's all right, Grandfather. It's me. George."

Trip slumped to his knees and stared. George hurried over and knelt beside him. "Are you all right, Grandfather?" Trip blinked and nodded.

"Ahm awight Gahge," he said confidently. Then blinked several times and pitched over. George caught him effortlessly and worked a control on his belt. Suddenly it was cool. Trip stiffened and gasped, then started shivering.

"It will be ok in a minute, Grandfather," George assured him. Trip felt something on his neck, a hypo hissed, and soothing relief began flowing through his body. He licked his lips, realizing to his astonishment that he_ could_ lick his lips again. George let him down gently to rest on the sand and began scanning him. "Lay there and rest a moment, Grandfather," he instructed. "Let me check you over."

"Sure thing, Kid," Trip whispered hoarsely. "Yer a sight for sore eyes. When did you get into town?"

"I have been here for a while now," George admitted. "But I have been keeping my head down. You understand."

"Sure," Trip nodded. "Visited your Granny yet?" He grinned weakly.

George grinned and chuckled. "We've spoken, yes. She's worried about you. I told her you could handle yourself, but you know how fretful women are."

"It's part of their charm, Son," Trip closed his eyes and luxuriated. "This feels nice. Reeeel nice. I'm gonna hate to go back out there."

"Rest a while, Grandfather. No hurry. And this field has a cloaking aspect, so nothing can see or hear us. You can take a nap if you like. It's quite safe in here." George seemed distracted. Between frequent glances at his scanner, he constantly checked the horizon as well as looking at something on his belt.

"What about the goons that V'Rald sent?" Trip asked sleepily. He yawned. He really was feeling whipped, now that he was finally in a place where he could relax.

"Not a problem," George assured him. "They can't find us. If they find your shelter, they will just watch it until sundown and then assume that you left it there as a decoy. At which point they will probably head for the next water stop."

"'k," Trip murmured. His next sound was a snore. George breathed out in relief. At least Trip was all right. Things had not gone completely to hell. Yet.

He tried again. No response from Daniel's ship transponder. S.O.P. for loss of contact with field HQ required immediate contact with Central Command. But George wasn't about to initiate any such thing on his own authority. Him? The most junior operative in place in this time slot? And on temporary status at that? No way. He wasn't strictly supposed to contact anyone else on Vulcan unless it was life or death, but then...

George keyed the decryptor and offered it the tediously long and complex series of identification protocols that it demanded. He input the necessary code and waited. It would be a while. In a worst case scenario, his contact could always note the time, then send him a pre-dated response message. But that wasn't likely to happen except in case of temporal war. For something like this he would just wait it out.

One hour and twenty-three minutes later, the light blinked. George jumped on the button. "ID G-35t6y7ud03jk1fg3bh confirmation requested."

_"ID S-9j68r9d4vv5g2d98klg665gb4 confirmation response." _

"Confirmed," George replied.

_Confirmed."_

"Reporting loss of contact with field HQ. Requesting direction."

_"Confirm general loss of contact with field HQ. Also report general loss of contact with Central Command. All units report confirmed."_

"Holy Shit!" George stared at the communicator. Then it kicked him between the eyes._ "No! Linda... B'Liea... Jerry.... NO!"_

The silence stretched until the other end said sharply,_ "Operative G-35t6y7ud03jk1fg3bh. Respond. Are you still functional?"_

"Leave me alone." George turned away and leaned against the rock face behind him.

_"George."_ The voice suddenly sounded like a person._ "Surrender is not an option. We have all been documenting our activities. We will analyze what we have done and find the incursion. Then we will correct it. Despair will not help your family."_

"How many children do you have, S'lask?" George demanded bitterly.

_"None yet, as you well know. But I intend to have several. And I expect you and V'Lianna to bring your brood to the wedding. Now tell me your status."_

George sighed and said, "In the Forge. After losing contact with field HQ I decided to tighten down on my primary subject. I made contact with Tucker, provided basic first aid. Moderate dehydration and contusions, nothing life threatening. I am giving him a chance to rest up under cover, since he is already temporally informed. His memoirs do not describe the period between the the upright stones and the second water stop. The interval is completely blank for some reason."

_"And now we know the reason,"_ the voice sounded not displeased._ "This might also explain how he was in such good condition once he got there, if you were able to boost him back up to optimum. Once he makes it to a reasonably safe area, report to the emergency conference point in Shi'Kahr at precisely 3 days, 5 hours, 23 minutes, 11 seconds from... mark."_

_"Got it," George said, coding the necessary temporal data._

"Good. I will see you there." The light went out.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Purgatory **

**By Blackn'blue (aka Bluenblack) **

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Star Trek. I wrote this for fun.

**Note:** Vulcan terms used in this story were taken from the online Vulcan Language Dictionary, the Vulcan Language Institute, or I made them up myself.

**Description:** This is the fourth story in my series that began with "For Want of A Nail" and continued with "In the Cold of the Night" and "Father to the Man". This entire series began as a Finale Fix that got out of hand. I suggest reading the preceding stories before tackling this one. Otherwise many of the references won't make any sense, since several ongoing plot lines are continued and completed in this story.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

T'Jala inclined her head and offered the greeting of kin to V'Lanos as he opened the gate. She strolled along the path to T'Para's door at a relaxed pace, enjoying the sight and scent of the copious garden that the Eldest Mother maintained. Altogether a pleasant way to begin the day. She opened the front door and stepped into the cool front hallway feeling refreshed.

As she had expected, T'Para was waiting in the reception area with T'Pol and T'Pol's daughter. This morning T'Jala took the time to look over the baby with more than usual attention. Superficially the child appeared entirely Vulcan, at least in her face and hands. Except... yes. Her eyes were paler than normal. Otherwise she could easily pass for Vulcan. Intriguing. Clan rumors reported that the child seemed intelligent, strong and healthy. Certainly the Eldest Mother had been heard on more than one occasion to express approval of her progress.

She raised her hand. "Greetings Eldest, Krei T'Pol." The baby raised her hand and spread out her fingers, then brought them together. Finally she reached over with her left hand and held the first two together and spread the rest apart. "And to you as well, Krei T'Lissa," T'Jala added gravely.

"Beese 'n long lyfe," the baby said clearly. T'Jala almost staggered in shock.

"Although T'Lissa appears Vulcan," her mother explained, "her verbal development is proceeding at a Human pace. Since Humans are non-telepathic, they learn to use their voices at a very young age."

T'Jala looked engrossed. "Fascinating." She blinked and turned back toward T'Para. "As instructed, Eldest, I have come to report on the results of my meeting with Lieutenant Commander Reed."

"Sit, Child," T'Para motioned at a chair. "Drink. Rest. When you are ready, begin."

T'Jala obediently took the nearest seat, directly opposite the couch where the other two women sat. She poured herself a cup of water, as custom required, and took the obligatory sip. "I confess, Eldest, that I was pleasantly surprised by the end of the evening. I had not anticipated that Malcolm Reed and I would have so many points of compatibility."

T'Pol's eyebrow twitched but she said nothing. T'Para managed to look self-satisfied without moving a single muscle. "I suspected that you would both be resistant to the idea at first."

"We were," T'Jala admitted. "I fear that Malcolm is still resistant." She turned to T'Pol. "While touring the ship I met Lieutenant Commander Hess, the Chief Engineer. Are you well acquainted with her?"

"Certainly," T'Pol assured her cousin. She permitted her wriggling offspring to slide down to the floor and wander off in the direction of the window. "Remember T'Lissa, the flower pot is for looking and smelling, not touching," she admonished the child quietly.

T'Jala nodded. "She requested your contact code so that she could initiate communication with Kov on her own behalf. Apparently she has little faith in your adun's skill at mating negotiations." T'Jala took another sip of water and let her glance follow T'Pol's in the direction of the baby. The child was certainly endearing. Obviously entranced by the plant, she was examining it closely.

T'Pol looked pensive. "I suppose that an unbiased third party observer could perhaps derive that conclusion. Although I am certain that Trip would be most sincere in his efforts." Although she politely tried to pay attention to T'Jala's presence, it was plain that a significant part of her attention was on her wandering daughter.

T'Para stood up and proceeded to take the baby's hand. "T'Lissa, I require tea. Will you assist me in the preparation?" The old woman requested gravely and T'Lissa looked up just as seriously. She nodded, and the two of them headed for the kitchen together. T'Pol visibly relaxed.

"I do not believe that his sincerity was in doubt," T'Jala responded. "Rather, Lieutenant Commander Hess holds the opinion that your adun is unskilled at relationships. She went on to state that if you had not, and I quote her exact words, 'forked him to the plate' the two of you would never have married. She suggested that if I determined Malcolm to be worth the effort I would need to do the same. So may I ask your advice on exactly how one goes about 'forking' a Human male?"

"The circumstances were different," T'Pol admitted. "Trip and I were already bonded, and we already had T'Lissa. In our case I merely proposed that we formalize a relationship that already existed. Your situation will require greater finesse."

"I welcome suggestions," T'Jala said.

"Your primary difficulty with Malcolm," T'Pol instructed her cousin, "will lie in the fact that he is reluctant to form a long term attachment with anyone other than colleagues. I believe that the overriding reason for this is the risk inherent in security work. He is notorious among the crew for establishing brief, superficial relationships with various females and then separating before they have time to evolve into something meaningful."

"Then it will be imperative that I establish an extended period of contact with Malcolm," T'Jala concluded.

"Obviously," T'Para interjected from the kitchen. "If he possesses a fraction of Trip's obstinance, you will need several weeks at minimum."

"He is at least as stubborn as Trip, if not more so," T'Pol told her. T'Para's left nostril twitched slightly and she nodded. "You have made your decision then?" T'Pol asked T'Jala. She stood up to take the small condiment tray from T'Lissa's proud but unsteady hands. "You have done well, Daughter." The little one grinned widely, displaying the gaps between her teeth.

"Yes," her cousin replied firmly. "His family and professional background are acceptable. He is physically appealing. During my visit I observed that he holds the respect of his subordinates, his peers, and his commanding officer. He is obviously dedicated to his duty and loyal to his commitments. His intelligence is obvious from his conversation alone, and also made evident by the fact of his rank at such a young age. If there were any negative aspects that I am not aware of, you or the Eldest would have advised me. Therefore, he seems eminently suitable."

She paused to watch T'Lissa climb back up onto the seat beside her mother. Rather than levering herself up with her arms, as a Vulcan child would have done, T'Lissa simply raised one leg until it was nearly as high as her shoulder. She hooked the heel over the edge of the seat and used it, along with her hands, to roll onto the couch.

"She is... remarkably flexible," T'Jala remarked. "How does her strength compare to Vulcan normal?"

"Very close," T'Para answered. "T'Lissa rates at approximately 90% of normal Vulcan strength. As you noted, she is quite flexible. Her current agility is rated at 86% of Human normal."

T'Pol told her, "Physically and mentally, she exhibits a remarkably effective compromise between the races. She combines Vulcan strength with Human agility, Vulcan stamina with the Human ability to absorb impacts. We discovered this by a most distressing accident recently when she was climbing and fell off the top shelf of the Eldest Mother's bookcase."

The little girl spoke up. "I fall down n' go bam," she explained earnestly. "It hurted."

"Yes." T'Para closed her eyes for a moment, but made no other movement. "The child fell a distance of 2.13 meters directly onto the flagstone floor of my library and landed on her side. Medical personnel assured us that a Vulcan child would certainly have suffered broken bones at minimum, and quite probably internal bleeding. T'Lissa merely sustained some heavy bruises." She added, "And a disgruntled attitude when her mother confined her to her sleeping quarters for the remainder of the day."

T'Jala looked at T'Pol with meticulously calculated sympathy. "That must have been distressing."

"Quite," she responded. "However it did diminish her fervor for climbing. Briefly."

"In any case," T'Jala took another sip of water, "Malcolm declared that he is dedicated to continuing his career with Starfleet. Can you estimate the length of time before he is promoted to flag rank and transferred to a planet based assignment?"

"A difficult question," T'Pol responded, "As one would expect, Starfleet advances officers in rank somewhat more quickly than the Vulcan fleet. And in recent years this tendency has been enhanced due to the constantly accelerating need for personnel. Humans are expanding into space very quickly now. The warp three engine has only been in mass production for ten years and already the perimeter of the Human sphere of influence has effectively doubled in size. Two more warp five vessels are currently under construction, and several more are planned. Starfleet is almost desperate to find qualified people to crew its vessels. Once it finds them, it is extremely reluctant to lose them. "

"Indeed?" T'Jala put on a thoughtful expression. "I wonder if their chef could use another assistant?"

&

"Lieutenant Commander Reed, please report to the armory."

Malcolm rolled out of his bunk and punched the comm button. "Reed here." He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "What's the emergency?"

"Sir, one of our torpedoes is missing."

&

"I don't want to hear that, Lieutenant," Archer growled. "Go back over the security monitor files again. There has to be something there. Nobody just picks up a photonic torpedo in their arms and walks out the door with it!"

"Yes, sir!" Lieutenant Sato flinched and bent over the console again. Archer stopped and chided himself.

The captain walked over to the communication terminal and leaned over. "I'm sorry, Hoshi," he told her, in a more controlled tone. "That was uncalled for. Just do your best, like always." She gave him a tiny smile and quickly looked back down.

"Anything, Travis?" Archer forced himself to sit back down and try to look as calm as possible.

"Nothing in range, sir," Mayweather told him. "And no record of any ship coming near us since that Vulcan security craft last night."

Archer froze. No. It couldn't be possible. Could it? "Thank you, Mr. Mayweather," he said slowly. "Since Lieutenant Sato is busy reviewing data, how about you take the center chair? I am going down to the armory to talk to Malcolm for a while."

"_No. Why would they? The Vulcans already have better torpedoes than we do," _Archer debated with himself as he stepped into the turbolift. "_And T'Para? Don't be stupid. If she wanted a torpedo all she would have to do is pick up a communicator and order one delivered in a gift box. You are grasping at straws." _

&

Ganlas unlocked the hatch cover and lifted the slab of hull metal. T'Pol leaned over and peered inside, shading her eyes to confirm the lettering. "Yes. This will do nicely. No doubt it has been disarmed?"

Ganlas looked amused. "I am not in the habit of storing military grade weapons within the city limits."

"Did the retrieval proceed as planned?" T'Pol inquired. The two of them casually strolled out of the Ministry of Security's official ground car fleet garage. Across the plaza, the soothing pastel tones of the central government complex rose gracefully into the flawless sky. The setting sunlight stretched fingers of shadow across the line of trickling fountains which divided the parking garage from the main public thoroughfare. A gentle zephyr was blowing, just enough to stir the hair and carry a faint scent of refreshing blossoms from the meditation park nearby.

"Flawlessly," Ganlas told her. "Your colleague performed her assignment to perfection."

"As I anticipated," T'Pol told him smugly. "Lieutenant Sato is a consummate professional."

"How does she plan to divert suspicion when the theft is discovered?" he wanted to know.

"That is a matter that will be handled by another operative," T'Pol made a dismissive gesture. "It is not a detail that I am required to address, fortunately. My next objective will be to arrange contact with Larai so that I can show him the item. Plainly, I cannot bring him here. What do you suggest?"

Ganlas told her, "I have been considering this matter. I recommend the caverns beneath Zaerth'Bren monastery. The ruins are not a popular attraction since little remains to be seen these days, and it is easily accessible by either ground car or flyer from anywhere in Shi'Kahr."

"Logical," she complimented him. "I will pass the message to him through the usual channels. Can the item be transported by tomorrow night before T'Kuhtset?"

"Yes," Ganlas told her decisively. "There will be no difficulty. Expect to find it in the third cavern, near the fluted columns adjacent to the spring, just behind the carved statue of the raptor-headed warrior."

"Appropriate." She permitted herself the smallest smile. "Until tomorrow night then." They exchanged gestures and turned to go their separate paths. Ganlas headed back into the government building, where his office awaited him with a desk that, as always, still groaned and sagged under the weight of PADDs and paperwork - all of it urgent of course.

T'Pol started walking at a carefully measured pace along the narrow pedway toward the meditation garden. She needed to contact Trip. It had been entirely too long since she sent him the warning. Intellectually she realized that the bond would inform her had something disastrous occurred. But intellect was poor comfort at times like this. Perhaps the garden would permit her to achieve sufficient peace of mind to reach him.

&

Trip woke up comfortable for the first time in longer than he wanted to remember. But he was laying on something hard. "_Did I fall asleep on the floor again?"_ he wondered. "_I'll bet T'Pol stuck a cushion under my head and left me here while she takes care of T'Lissa,"_ he chuckled to himself. "_Baby girl, if you can take daddy out now, what are you going to be like when you are five?"_ he wondered. He opened his eyes and froze. He was looking in the face of a descendant who was considerably more mature than his daughter. Then it hit him all at once.

"Good evening, grandfather," George told him. "Have a good nap?"

"Yeah. I really did. Thanks." Trip sat up and realized that the protective field was still in place. The air inside was a _lot_ cooler than Vulcan normal. And moister too. The surface of the field looked hemispherical and grayish, cutting down the sunlight quite a bit. Although Trip could see that the day had gotten long in the tooth since he dropped off. The sun was touching the tops of the peaks, and the glow of T'Kuht had already started to burn the eastern horizon.

Trip carefully stretched out his arms and legs. All the stiffness was gone. In fact, all the pain was gone completely. He felt completely rested and refreshed. He wasn't even thirsty anymore. "What did you shoot me up with, Son?" he wanted to know.

"Just a few basic restoratives and some nutrients. Nothing special," George shrugged. "A few equalizers to get you back on your feet."

"Isn't that kinda cheating?" Trip asked wryly, with one side of his mouth twisted.

"Cheating?" For some reason George seemed to be in a bad mood. "What the hell is cheating about it? The test is not supposed to include having trained assassins coming after you, is it? Anyway this whole ridiculous farce is a monumental waste of time and energy. It's a throwback to the days of savagery. The original Kahs-Wahn was a maturity test for young males. Like it was on Earth, where a boy had to undergo desert ordeals, or ritual scarring, or kill a lion to prove his manhood. After the industrial revolution came along, girls wanted in on it too. Then when Surak came along they took out the hunting requirements. But what difference does it really make? How often is the average city dweller going to be called upon to spend ten days wandering around in the wilderness anyway? They should just train people and be done with it."

"You're preachin' at the choir, Son," Trip said gently. "But I don't wanna screw this up. It's important to me that I be able to look people in the eye and swear I did it honestly."

George slumped and sighed. "Of course. But you weren't in bad shape to begin with. The rest did you more good than anything else. And you really do deserve a little boost because of the people after you, don't you think?"

"I can't argue that part," Trip admitted. "Where are the S.O.B.'s anyway? And how many are there?"

"Two," George said. "A husband and wife team. Both experts."

"Husband and... oh shit," revelation lit up Trip's face. "They're bonded, aren't they?"

"Yes." George nodded. "Now you understand one of the main reasons that they are so successful and so highly paid."

"Crap." Trip stood up. "I better get moving if I want to make the next waterhole tonight." He looked out at the horizon. Without facing his grandson, Trip asked, "So why are you really here?"

George answered, "Here? Now? In the Forge? To keep you alive and help you make it through the test."

Trip nodded. "And the rest of it?"

George sighed. "There are several things going on, grandfather. I can't tell you about most of them."

"Like why we are going to need better engines real fast?" Trip waited but George did not respond. So he continued. "When you two were fixing T'Lissa, T'Pol and her older version went off by themselves for a while. Remember?"

George said awkwardly. "I remember."

Trip mused. "She never told me what they talked about. She said it's something private. Told me that it was her own private thoughts that she shared with herself. Asked me if she couldn't keep her own private thoughts to herself. Now what was I gonna say to that? But I have noticed a few things."

"What things?" George tensed.

"T'Pol's worried about something," Trip said reflectively. "Something pretty big. She never talks about it, but I can tell when it hits her. And it has something to do with Earth and our ships. And it has something to do with our technology. When we got the job re-designing the warp six engine for Starfleet, I could feel through our bond that she was almost obsessed about it. Like we were working under a deadline." He turned to look at his extended offspring, who dropped his eyes.

"I told you, grandfather." George mumbled. "I can't-" He stopped.

Trip went on. "When we heard that the Andorians wanted to swap an engine for our transporter, I swear that T'Pol felt, to me, like she was close to getting almost dizzy with... relief? Almost joyful about it. She reacted like a kid at Christmas. I could feel it clear as day. Now why would she react that strongly, grandson, unless she knew for a fact that Earth is gonna need faster ships _real bad_ pretty soon."

George chewed on his lips. "If I could tell you, I would. Honestly." He gave Trip a look. "All I can say is that the technology swap is a very good idea."

Trip nodded. "Figured that much. Now tell me why V'Rald is trying to kill me in particular?"

"He's not just trying to kill you in particular," George sighed. "But the other targets have already been taken care of. In your case, you have the technical expertise to help negotiate the best possible deal for Earth. You have a lot of influence here on Vulcan - a personal friend of the Chief Minister as well as a hero who prevented a war with Andoria. The Andorians consider you a hero also, for risking your career to bring them warning of the Vulcan attack, and then throwing your ship right between the fleets that way. The Andorians figure that your honor is above question. You actually have more influence on Andoria than Jonathan Archer does. You will swing a lot of weight in the negotiations, grandfather. Plus there is the whole deal about Koss and that stupid letter."

"Koss won't have to worry about that letter much longer," Trip hissed. "Neither will V'Rald."

"No, they won't," George assured him. "But for now we need to get you through this test. Here," he handed over a small cannister the size of a fist. "This condenses water out of the air and stores it in the reservoir. It should refill itself almost as fast as you can drink it. Even if they manage to block your access to water for an extended period, you won't be in trouble." He saw Trip hesitate. "Take it grandfather. You don't have to use it unless the Vulcans actually do stake out the checkpoint and set up an ambush."

Trip snorted and took the device. "You wouldn't happen to have an extra pair of gloves, would you?"

&

Malcolm stood up quickly when the captain walked into the ship's data analysis center. "You're here, Sir. Very good. I found something disturbing that you need to see."

The overpowered beowulf supercluster - originally installed for use during the Xindi mission, along with 800K terrabytes of extra data storage, had been reassigned for astro-metrics and general science applications once Enterprise's resumed her role as an exploration vessel. Malcolm had usurped the main computer and put the entire science department to work on a 24/7 rotation analyzing every scrap of sensor data that they had picked up since arriving in the Eridani system. From the way he stood fidgeting beside the main viewscreen, Archer knew that he had hit real pay dirt.

"Don't keep me in suspense, Commander," the captain ordered. "Spill it."

Malcolm brought up a display showing a series of overlapping graphs. "Ensign Borgas spotted it first," he gave an approving nod to the young man bent over a nearby terminal. Archer glanced across the room and made a mental note of the youngster's identity.

"These anomalies," Malcolm was continuing, "here, here, and here," he pointed, "look at first glance like ordinary interference. The kind of background noise that you get around any developed world. But look here, Sir." He manipulated the controls. Several of the lines faded out, leaving only the specific interference patterns on the screen. "These are the patterns that Borgas spotted. See anything familiar, Sir?"

"Not really," Archer said, hanging onto his patience. "Should I?"

"I suppose not, Sir," Malcolm looked a touch disappointed. "I just thought it might ring a bell. We have seen that particular pattern before. We picked up these aberrations three times since Enterprise established orbit around Vulcan. The most recent detection was last night during Lady T'Jala's visit. Right about the time that the torpedo went missing." He brought up another readout and superimposed it over the first one. The energy signatures matched almost perfectly.

"They look the same," Archer admitted. "Where did the other one come from?"

"The other one," Malcolm turned to face him and continued gravely, "is Romulan."

&

"Are you certain?" Harris looked like a corpse.

"_The boy isn't stupid. And I checked it myself. Yeah. We're sure."_ Ezekiel sounded tired.

Harris closed his eyes. "Notify all local personnel - go to Defense Condition Two. If they are penetrating deep into Vulcan space and raiding our cruisers for weapon samples - _and getting away with it," _he snarled, "then we are even closer than we thought. We may not even have time to finish this technology trade, much less get our engine upgrades installed. The way it looks we may be fighting with what we have in our hands right now."

"_It's pretty plain the Vulcans didn't finish their housekeeping." _

"Yeah." Harris rubbed a tired hand over his forehead. "Did Archer let them know?"

"_Right away. The shit hit the fan big time. He told Trask first of course. Then Trask had him beam down and they went in to tell T'Pau together in private. Vulcan Security turned into an anthill after boiling water had been poured into it. I don't think the young lady was happy." _

"The embassy?"

"_Jendaro has it on lockdown," _Ezekiel snorted. "_Like that would make any difference to the Romulans."_

"And it advertises that something big has happened." Harris heaved a deep breath. "No wonder Gardner doesn't trust him to handle the warp upgrades. By the book, of the book, and for the book all the way, that's Jendaro."

"_Couldn't drive a tack up his ass with a nine pound sledgehammer," _the old man agreed.

&

{Greetings to you, Honored One.}

The voice was familiar, even if the words were not. She had never before been addressed, publicly or otherwise, with the traditional High Vulcan salute toward an Elder Matriarch. T'Pol snapped her eyes open and quickly checked the area. But George had spoken softly, and no one was within earshot.

{Welcome to you, Son of my House,} she courteously gave the appropriate response. "Sit. Speak," she continued in modern Vulcan. "How are things progressing with your mission?"

George hesitated briefly. "We will really have no way of knowing until it is complete," he finally told her. "I wanted to let you know that grandfather Tucker is fine at the moment. I just left him."

A wave of relief made her slump back against the bench. Only then did she realize how tense she had been. "That is most agreeable news," she admitted. She hesitated. "Thank you."

George flashed a grin for an instant before replacing his mask of Vulcan control. "You are most welcome, grandmother," he told her in English. "He was concerned that you might be worrying. I told him, of course, that a Vulcan would not waste energy on such a non-productive activity, but he insisted that I promise to visit you anyway."

T'Pol twinkled at him. "Indeed," she said gravely. "Trip can be remarkably determined once he fixes his mind on an idea. It is often best to humor him."

"I also wanted to warn you about the method we used to cover Hoshi's part in the torpedo theft," George went on very quietly. T'Pol's eyebrows drew together and she leaned forward slightly.

"Continue."

"I arranged," George explained, "for the ship's sensor logs to be altered slightly. Enough to make it appear that a cloaked Romulan ship had been nearby several times, including the night the torpedo disappeared. They took the bait. Starfleet and Vulcan Security are now convinced that the torpedo was stolen by Romulans."

The edge of the concrete bench crumbled in T'Pol's grip.

"Have you gone mad!?" She gasped harshly. Pausing to breathe heavily, T'Pol tried to get herself under control.

"Not completely yet," George had a strange edge in his voice. "Let me explain."

It took quite a while, and T'Pol had many questions. By the time they finished T'Khut was high in the sky and she was still not completely satisfied. But the available alternatives seemed limited in the extreme.

"I fail to see how this can avoid causing further damage to the alliance," T'Pol complained. "Particularly since this is occurring just as Trip is in the process of being granted Vulcan citizenship."

"Trust me, grandmother," George assured her. "Despite your bond, you still don't understand how Humans think. They are an intensely pragmatic people. For them, the bottom line will weigh most heavily. Given the value of what you are going to accomplish, they will be more than willing to overlook a few minor peccadilloes committed in the process of getting there."

"Minor?" She sighed. "I seem to have no choice in the matter now. After meeting tomorrow night with Larai and his client, I will arrange to contact the local representative as you have specified. What is his designation?"

"His code designation is Rinaldo," George told her. "He is the planetary coordinator for Starfleet covert operations on Vulcan. Officially he works at the Earth embassy as a janitor."

T'Pol nodded. "An excellent cover. Maintenance personnel can enter into every area without question, and are seldom noticed at any time, day or night. They are also in a position to access restricted equipment during off hours without difficulty."

George gave her the standard recognition signals, both verbal and gesture. "These are current up to three days from now. If you can't make contact before then, I will get you the new ones. He is tall, balding, gray fringe of hair with bushy eyebrows. Gray eyes, stoop shoulders, tends to shuffle. Soft spoken. Wears faded coveralls. Invariably carrying a broom or pushing a mop. Seldom willing to make eye contact."

"A true professional," T'Pol noted approvingly.

"Indeed," George agreed. "He is also a master of several martial arts and an eighteen year veteran in the field of espionage. I recommend caution."

"Naturally. I am not a beginner at this, Son of my House," she told him primly.

&

The gloves were magical. There was no other way to describe them. Skin tight, transparent, Trip could not even feel them on his hands. They let sweat and air pass through freely and did not constrict his fingers or palm in any way. But nothing could penetrate them. Just for fun he picked up another jagged shard of obsidian and closed his fist around it. The sliver was twice the size of his thumbnail and razor edged. Trip tightened his grip until his knuckles whitened. Nothing. He couldn't detect the slightest sign of irritation.

Best of all, on impact the gloves became as rigid as steel. Trip dropped the sliver and reformed his fist. Then he swung a powerful punch directly into the basalt wall beside him. The shock of impact ran up his arm, across both shoulders and down his spine. But as far as his hand was concerned, he might as well have been punching a pillow. Trip chuckled and shook his head.

"_Nice, Kid. How do they work?" _He remembered asking George.

"_Nano-technology embedded in the material, grandfather. Which you had already guessed of course. Beyond that I am telling you nothing, so quit poking."_

He felt better than he had since the test began. Telling yourself that you could do it wasn't nearly as encouraging as hearing someone else tell you that you actually had done it. George assured him that in the original time line he had made it through the course with a few hours to spare. Hearing that had done more for Trip's morale that a full meal and ten hours in a soft bed.

All he had to do now was finish the route without getting shot, stabbed, eaten, poisoned, falling off a cliff, strangled, or lost. No problem.

Trip had followed the crevice downhill until the side slopes widened enough to make scrambling up the far side a simple matter. Then he hiked back along the edge until he found the trail again. He had briefly considered cutting cross country and meeting the trail farther along, but decided not to be stupid. Trails in high, broken terrain exist for a reason, he reflected. Once he found the trail it was a simple matter to establish a route parallel to it. Near enough to keep it in view but far enough back to avoid making a blatant target of himself.

George had told him that his pursuers were scheduled to be waiting for him at the next spring. Meanwhile, his bodyguards were somewhere nearby. Supposedly following and watching him. When Trip asked what they would think about his sudden appearance from beneath the cloaking field, George merely laughed and told him that the field was camouflaged to mimic the background earth. From the point of view of the watching Humans, it would look like he had crawled out of a hole or something. Trip shrugged and dropped it.

The terrain wasn't nearly as horrendous as he had been led to expect. At least not yet. Vulcan standards of what constituted jagged mountains were a little more mellow than Terran standards. Plate tectonics on Vulcan consisted of a grand total of three major plates, none of which were very frisky. The Sas'A'Shar mountain range partially defined the edge where two plates met, but the last episode of major volcanic activity had taken place immediately following the last planetary war. The same war that had killed Surak and left the Forge in its current condition.

Even then, the eruptions were relatively mild by Earth standards, Trip reflected. Vulcan's mountain building phase had occurred long before the rise of sentient life. There was no equivalent to Krakatoa in Vulcan history. No Pompeii. And no equivalent to the legend of Atlantis or Mu either. Vulcans had no cultural context for grasping the emotional impact of a "lost civilization". Their entire history was readily traceable in the archaeological record. Some parts of it were contradictory and puzzling, Trip had learned. But none of it had been destroyed by natural catastrophe.

All of which meant, for Trip, that if he had been operating under Earth gravity the hike would have been fairly easy. Unfortunately, Earth gravity was naught but a wistful memory. He stood at the base of a three meter bluff and sighed. Then he looked speculatively at his gloves. Trip took stance and stiffened his fingers. He took several deep breaths, tensed his muscles, and suddenly shot his stiffened fingers forward. His hand penetrated the weathered granite like a drill bit, smashing loose small chunks and sending them flying in all directions.

Trip gaped for a moment. Then he laughed. "All riiight," he whispered. "Let's see if this works."

Half an hour later Trip pulled himself up and over the top of the small cliff feeling disassociated by disbelief. He turned and stuck his head over the edge, still incredulous as he eyed the series of hand and foot holds that he had chopped into the solid stone with nothing but his fingers. Shaking his head faintly, Trip stood up and continued on his way.

The sun was rising by the time he made it to the next spring. This particular wet spot in the rocks was located at the base of a tall crack, tucked in at the head of a deep, narrow canyon. There was only one way in on foot, and only two ways in by rope.

They were waiting for him, just like George had said they would be.

&

T'Khut was nearing the horizon. T'Pol turned and walked back into the darkness of the cave entrance. She seated herself on the ornamental bench, badly worn but once beautifully carved. Larai would be arriving very soon with the Tellarite representative. He was beset with character flaws, but lack of punctuality was not among them.

T'Pol opened her scanner. Her guards were still in position, as expected. Three on the outer perimeter, two in the temple ruins above her, one on each side of the cave entrance, and two more behind her in the back of the cavern complex. Not that she expected difficulty. Tellarites were one of the more opportunistic races in the quadrant, and the value of what she offered was extremely high. There was little chance that they would risk disrupting the trade in any way. Plus, of course, her own weapons.

T'Pol looked down at the sand colored coverall she wore and quirked an eyebrow. _"I wonder what Larai will think when he sees me unencumbered for the first time?"_

she mused. There was no point in remaining incognito. To the contrary, it was vital that the Tellarite be reassured that he was meeting a valid contact with real authority to conduct business. At the thought, T'Pol's hand dropped automatically to the hilt of the knife that hung in a sheath at her waist. She twisted her mouth wryly, remembering Trip's reaction the day he decided to give it to her.

_"All right then," Trip had said casually. "Here's the consulting contract with the revised terms, just like Admiral Gardner promised." He placed the PADD on the desk of the clerical assistant at the Starfleet liason office. "All you have to do is sign it." _

_T'Pol had inclined her head and murmured, "Of course, Husband." She dutifully signed the document and handed it back to him. Trip turned and offered it to the Vulcan clerk, who looked at it and tilted her head quizzically. _

_"You must sign it as well, Commander," Trip was informed. _

_"Me? Why?" He looked confused. "I am not the one taking the job." _

_"You are Head of House," T'Pol explained. "Women manage family and clan matters. Males handle details of business and property. I cannot accept this position unless you personally approve it." _

_Trip appeared nonplussed. "You have got to be kidding me." Both women made negative gestures. "You mean... everything?" _

_"I am permitted to make standard household purchases, such as groceries," T'Pol told him, "using cash or by drawing on the household account. In such cases your approval is automatically implied. Otherwise, you need to expressly authorize me to conduct business in your name." _

_Trip stared. "Isn't there some way I could... you know... grant you a permanent authorization?" The two Vulcan women glanced at each other uncomfortably. _

_"That would be inappropriate, Husband," T'Pol told him, using that tone she reserved for times when he was stepping on a taboo. "The division of responsibilities in our culture is quite strict and has been kept that way for many thousands of years. What you suggest is almost never done." _

_"Almost never? That's not the same as never. When IS it done?" Trip wanted to know. _

_"I am not comfortable discussing this," T'Pol stubborned up. _

_"All right then." He turned to the clerk. "You work for Starfleet, right? Part of your job is to provide information to Starfleet personal regarding local customs, right? I am asking as a Starfleet Commander. Please inform me of the circumstances whereby a Vulcan husband might grant his wife permanent authorization to conduct business." _

_The young woman looked wide-eyed back and forth, from the amused expression on Trip's face, to the tightness on T'Pol's. Finally she visibly swallowed and said, "It is granted when the husband is physically or mentally incapacitated. To do otherwise is almost unheard of. Historically several queens have been granted this authority by their mates, and legend states that Surak also gave this power to his wife. But I am not personally aware of any other such cases."_

_"What's required for this? Legally?" Trip wanted to know. The clerk looked uncertainly at T'Pol who refused to meet her eyes. _

_"There is a brief ceremony, and the filing of a certificate," she told him. _

_"Simple enough then," Trip had said brightly. "Tell me about this ceremony."_

_"Husband," T'Pol started to make a final attempt to salvage propriety, but Trip cut her off. _

_"T'Pol, you married a Human. Deal with it. I have bent over backward until my vertebra snapped to try and conform to Vulcan custom. But I am not about to spend the rest of my life being forced to personally supervise every purchase you make." He turned back to the clerk. "So tell me about this ceremony, would you please?" _

T'Pol shook her head slightly and ran her fingertips over the hilt of the dagger. Despite its ostentatious appearance, it was fully functional. No Vulcan would see any logic in making a weapon that could not be used. The artisan that Trip had contracted with to produce the knife had been compelled to consult with the priests at Mount Seleya in order to be certain of the proper configuration. She adamantly refused to wear it except during High Ceremonial occasions, and other extreme circumstances like tonight.

The scrambled voice in her earpiece quietly notified her, "Incoming ground car. One driver, one passenger." She murmured acknowledgment. The car's hover fans kicked up a dust cloud outside the entrance for a few minutes. T'Pol remained seated and waited patiently. The opening car door and descending footsteps announced her visitor's approach clearly enough. She recognized Larai's step instantly. The heavy, shuffling gait of his companion could be nothing other than Tellarite. They stopped outside the entrance, carefully to avoid providing a target, and waited.

"I am seated 3.2 meters inside, and 5.11 meters to the right of the entrance on a stone bench," she announced calmly. "I have two companions, who are located at the rear of the cavern complex guarding the item. The night grows no younger."

"Brisk as always," Larai retorted in amusement. He stepped through the doorway and stood for a moment, turning his head back and forth. "The way is clear. Enter."

His companion stepped through behind him, breathing with difficulty and growling. "Where is this Vulcan who supposedly speaks for them? I believe you have grown senile in your dotage, Larai."

"I will not dispute your overall conclusion," T'Pol said, standing and walking forward. "However, I am here. Do you carry authority to negotiate for your people?" Her nostrils flared, pulling in the distinctive odor of Tellarite male. Larai had been honest up to this point at least.

"You-" The Tellarite stood still. He seemed to be staring at her, as best she could detect from his hooded form. T'Pol had made certain to stop in a pool of T'Khutlight and stood facing them both openly, with her arms at her sides.

"I am T'Pol, wife of Starfleet Commander Charles Tucker III," she told him. T'Pol mentally braced herself and apologized to Trip for using his name in such a deliberately deceptive manner. "In this matter, I speak for my husband."

"Hrmph," the Tellarite grumbled. "They might at least have sent a Captain. This kind of disrespectful approach-"

"We are not here to exchange pleasantries," T'Pol cut him off abruptly. "nor do I think that any of us are over supplied with excess time. I have offered my identity to you. I require equivalent evidence of good faith."

The short figure grunted and tossed back his hood. "I am Grotke, Senior Assistant Secretary to the Tellarite Ambassador. Are you satisfied, Vulcan?"

T'Pol inclined her head. "Eminently. This way, gentlemen." She turned and led them through a rear doorway and deeper into the caves. A series of very old and badly drained radiation powered lamps outlined the pathway. They meandered through a forest of multicolored stalagmites, some of which were carved into eye twisting forms. The second cave was, by Vulcan standards, quite damp. It was even possible for T'Pol to hear the rare drip of water from an occasional stalactite.

The back wall of the second cave had been meticulously smoothed and flattened millennia ago for purposes unknown. In the precise center an archway was located, outlined by neatly placed blocks. One factor which made the monastery fascinating to archaeologists was this arch. Each block had been individually cut from local stone, and carefully formed into a different shape. The blocks had then been fitted together like a three dimensional jigsaw puzzle to form a mathematically perfect arch. The structure was unique on the planet.

The third cave was pitch black except for the light of four torches at the four corners of the square room. A walkway comprised of white marble led from the arch directly forward to the feet of a statue that stood at least five meters high, almost touching the ceiling. In form, the Colossus stood on two legs and wore Vulcan ceremonial robes. It's arms were raised as if in supplication. One hand held an ahn-woon, the other a knife. The statue wore the head of a raptor with beak open. The eyes were greenstones, huge and scintillating in the flickering torchlight.

Grotke halted with a gasp and stared. The others paused to wait for him. He coughed to cover his sudden nervousness and growled, "What are you waiting for? Let's get this over with." T'Pol said nothing, leading the way down the marble path to the clawed feet of the idol. As they approached the gigantic figure a depression in the floor became faintly visible in the shadow that lurked between the raptor god's legs. A shallow set of steps led downward into pitch blackness. T'Pol triggered a small lamp at her belt and started down the stairs without breaking stride.

Grotke was complaining nonstop, "Benighted Vulcans burrowing like _kelit. _Why could we not just meet somewhere on a ship? _Enterprise _is in orbit right above us. They have an entire ARMORY full of these things. Instead I have to tramp through this ancient Vulcan cemetery-"

"We are here." T'Pol cut through his ranting. She gestured forward. Larai held up a hand to forestall his client. The cloaked figure took an esoteric looking scanner from beneath his robe and approached the twin pillars. A low platform between them was almost filled with a sleek cylindroid mass bearing Human alpha-numeric markings. Larai triggered his instrument and starting sweeping it over the torpedo from one end to the other, and then back again. T'Pol waited patiently.

Finally Larai stood up and clicked off the scanner. He stood for a moment, apparently contemplating something, before turning to face the other two. "So it is all true, Kart- T'Pol." He said in a bemused voice. "Despite our history, despite your reputation, I still could not quite bring myself to believe it. But the scans do not lie. Not from my instrument." He turned to Grotke. "It is genuine, Assistant Secretary Grotke. A working photonic torpedo. The antimatter is missing of course. And it was manufactured by Humans, not Vulcans. Confirmed."

Grotke's lip curled and he growled thoughtfully. The Tellarite walked over and ran his thick fingered hand over the surface of the weapon, caressing the sleek finish. "And the Humans will give us the designs for these in return for better hulls?"

"Of course not," T'Pol said primly. "The offer is to sell working torpedoes in return for Tellarite assistance with improving Human hull design."

Grotke laughed gruffly. "I foresee much dickering ahead, Vulcan." He looked up with a glint of honest amusement in his eyes. "We will have need of your services in the days and months to come, Larai."

"I am, as always, at your disposal," Larai bowed. "For the proper renumeration of course."

"Of course," Grotke chuckled. He looked at T'Pol. "I have been authorized by the ambassador to commit my people to an agreement in principle. We are willing to enter into such an exchange provided equitable terms can be reached. But I will need this torpedo to present as proof of your good intentions."

T'Pol considered. "You accept Larai's assurances that the weapon is currently in operational condition?"

"Yes." Grotke sounded cautious. T'Pol walked over and keyed in a sequence that opened an access panel. She proceeded to remove two small modules and closed the panel again.

"These," she said, holding up the modules for inspection, "Are crucial components for the operation of the weapon. It will not fire without them. However the rest of the weapon is intact, and you may take it with you if you wish. I am only authorized to initiate negotiations. I have not been authorized to release functional hardware at this time."

Grotke nodded grudgingly. "It will suffice."

T'Pol flipped open her communicator and spoke briefly. A low hum prefaced the glow that surrounded the torpedo before it disappeared. She flipped the communicator shut and told them, "It has been transported into the cargo compartment of your vehicle. I trust that in addition to the diplomatic markings you also thought to install shielding?"

Larai snorted. "How many years have I been doing this? Am I dead yet?" He turned to Grotke. "When you are ready, Secretary."

T'Pol watched the two men stride away. Larai walking as casually as if he were strolling along a well lit city street. Grotke, by contrast, walked with shoulders hunched and his head constantly swinging back and forth. Tellarites were a superstitious people, she recalled, with a strong tradition of spiritualism. In their traditions, ancient ruins such as this would hold a strong attraction for the spirits of the dead.

"That did not take as long as I had anticipated." The voice came from behind her, but she did not turn around.

"There was little to discuss, Ganlas," she said. "Their decision was already made. Tonight was merely a necessary formality. Tomorrow will be the important meeting."

"Will you require guards?" There was something in his tone that grabbed her attention. She finally turned to look him in the eye.

"Is there some problem, krei?" The muscles in Ganlas' face trembled almost imperceptibly as he fought for control.

"It is not my place to question the Eldest Mother," he began delicately. "However I cannot avoid observing symptoms of uncertainty from both she and you. Especially since you informed us of your intent to meet with the Human Intel officer tomorrow. I am concerned T'Pol."

She let out her breath and gave him a weak smile. "There are aspects that I am unable to share, this is true. But I can tell you that I have full confidence in the outcome of this meeting."

"_Absolute confidence," _she thought, "_if necessary, George will simply reset the timeline over and over until it works out correctly." _

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Star Trek. I wrote this for fun.

**Note:** Vulcan terms used in this story were taken from the online Vulcan Language Dictionary, the Vulcan Language Institute, or I made them up myself.

**Genre:** Drama/Adventure

**Rating:** PG-13 (language)

**Description:** This is the fourth story in my series that began as a Finale Fix and then got out of hand. I suggest reading the preceding stories before tackling this one. Otherwise many of the references won't make any sense, since several ongoing plot lines are continued and completed in this story.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Trip squatted down and considered. Malcolm was constantly talking about situations like this. Options for tactically disadvantageous terrain. And so on, and on and on. Trip tried to wrack his tired and dehydrated brain to come up with something from those long bull sessions that might help.

The Vulcan killers were placed on opposite sides of the tiny canyon, hidden but with each of them having a clear view of the path to the spring. Trip squatted at the rim of the cliff just above the spring in frustration. From here he could easily rappel down to the water, if he wanted to be a pincushion. He closed his eyes and relaxed for a few seconds. When he opened them again the boulder on this side of the canyon had changed shape again. Position confirmed. The location of the other one was undeniable, he had already shifted position twice. For Vulcan he sure was an impatient sonuvabitch.

Trip hissed in disgust. There had to be some way to get in there. Walking up the canyon would leave him exposed to their weapons the entire way – not an option. Dropping a rock on one of them was an appealing thought, but impractical. His aim wasn't that good. Plus, Vulcan reaction time would most likely let them hear the rock coming in time to dodge it.

He felt the raging frustration building and stopped himself cold. No. No more. Not again. Instantly Trip fell back into the meditation disciplines that T'Para had taught him. The quiet pond near his boyhood home formed in his mind, and the cool breezes of Earth flowed comfortingly over his skin. Meanwhile the back of his mind was steadily reciting the Principles and Standards, which were the closest translation that they had been able to come up with from High Vulcan for what the meditation disciplines actually taught.

It worked, again. It always did. But he still faced the same problem. Only now the eastern sky was lightening. In less than two hours the sun would be up again. Trip shook his head and rubbed his aching temples.

A faint shuffle in the distance yanked his head around, then he slumped in annoyed relief. A figure stood propped casually against the side of a vitrified outcrop, blasted into molten glass during the war. When he turned his head, the man waved but waited politely for him to rise and walk over before speaking. "Hello, grandfather."

"Hi, George," Trip sighed. "How goes it?"

"For me, it could be worse," his descendant told him, tongue in cheek. "But for you I think things could be better. Am I wrong?"

"You looked over the situation?" Trip snorted.

"Yes, I saw," George told him with a solemn expression. "Exactly the type of social debacle that one tries to avoid at dinner parties." Trip chuckled.

"Grandfather," George said firmly. "I know you are determined to make it through the Kahs-Wahn on your own. But like I said before, the test was not designed or intended to be taken with assassins in hot pursuit. Will you accept my assistance with this? We can stroll over to the spring under cover of my cloaking field, collect your token and fill your canteen, then stroll back out and you can continue on your way. Just exactly what you would do if they were not even there."

Trip snorted. "Deal." He looked back at the waiting Vulcans. "Let's get this done."

&

Trip tensed and couldn't stop himself from tip-toeing as they passed between the Vulcan watchers. George flicked a glance out of the corner of his eye and said airily, "I told you they wouldn't notice anything. See? Yoo-Hoo!" He waved and grinned at the man, who showed no reaction. Trip's mouth worked several times before he managed to start breathing again.

"Son..."

"What?"

"Never mind."

Trip picked up the second Kahs-Wahn token from the bin and dropped it into his pouch with a feeling of anti-climax. After everything else, finally getting that little piece of metal turned out to be kind of a disappointing experience. He knelt to re-fill his canteen and a thought struck him. Slowly he began to smile. Trip stole a look at George and saw his descendant gazing down the canyon, lost in thought. Good.

The two of them started back out toward the mouth of the tiny valley, and Trip veered gradually toward the right – heading in the direction of the woman. George finally noticed his drifting off course and grabbed his arm. "Where are you going Grandfather? Watch yourself. Just because they can't see or hear us doesn't mean you have to push things."

Trip chuckled reassuringly and brushed the hand away. "I want to take a quick look, Son. Something about her seems a little bit familiar. I'm not gonna get myself killed. Trust me?" George looked highly dubious but followed along as they climbed the right hand slope and approached the crouching murderess.

Trip stopped a meter short of his prey and put his hands on his hips. "Hm... Not sure." He strolled around behind and to the far side of the woman, looking her up and down. Looking up at George, Trip told him, "There are still some things about her that look mighty familiar to me. For instance," he stepped around behind her again. "Look here, Son. The way her shoulders and neck-"

Trip lunged forward with both hands and grabbed at the assassin's right shoulder with his right hand, praying as hard as he ever had in his life that T'Pol's lessons had stuck with him. He clamped his right hand down hard on the designated pressure points, then covered them with his left hand for reinforcement and squeezed with all the strength he had in both hands at once. The Vulcan woman spasmed backwards and arched her back, reaching for Trip's forearms with a grunting half shout. But before she could establish a grip the nerve pinch took effect and she collapsed, unconscious.

George leaped forward to cover all three of them with the cloaking field. "Holy Mother of Grklir! What the hell were you thinking, jumping in like a crazy man and giving that rekloq humping son of an honorless petaq across the canyon a clear shot at you? You could have been frickin' plortkes netvitkec with a poisoned dart up your dumbass before I had time to react, you bubble brained spawn of a kbet!"

"Tsk, tsk, grandson," Trip said mildly as he busied himself cutting lengths of Marnik rope and wrapping his victim like a Christmas present. "Is that any kind of language to use with your elder?"

"When my elder acts like a senile tribble it is," George retorted. "Now look what you've done. We have to kill her. She is scheduled to die, but not yet. And her mate," he gestured at the bottom of the canyon, where the Vulcan male was approaching at a cautious stalk with his weapon ready, "will probably have to be killed here too. Neither of them were supposed to die yet according to your memoirs. There is no telling what this will do to the **basklaar **time line!" George turned and smashed his fist into a boulder, cracking it and leaving a smear of green blood behind.

Trip looked sharply at his grandson and stood up. He checked the other Vulcan, who had frozen when the sound of the impact echoed throughout the tiny valley. Now the second assassin stood in place, turning his head and trying to locate the source of the sound. Satisfied that the other hunter still wasn't sure of their position, he turned back to George and bluntly asked, "What's the real problem? Ever since you showed up out here something has been eating at you. And it hasn't been your job either. Something personal is digging into you. And by the way, what's this about my memoirs?"

"You know how paranoid Vulcans are about privacy," George said bitterly. "And... circumstances... are going to cause... problems... with a lot of the Human records covering this section of history. Your memoirs are one of the few completely intact historical references we have available for the latter half of this century. At least concerning the specific matters that I was sent back here to monitor."

"Comforting to know I'm supposed to live long enough to write them," Trip smiled. "I guess that means I'm scheduled to live through the war too?" George's head whipped around to stare. "C'mon kid," Trip sighed. "How stupid do you think I am? Why else would it suddenly be critical that we get faster ships _right now _? Earth is gonna need faster ships real bad, real soon. Bad enough that T'Pol is scared we might not get them in time. She hasn't said anything, but I can tell. That means danger is coming. Which means war. Simple enough."

George sagged against the rock. "I suppose it is pretty obvious, isn't it? To someone with your intelligence, who is up to speed about the politics of interstellar relations in this time period."

Trip nodded and waved at the Vulcan male, who was climbing cautiously up the slope toward them. "How about you go ahead and pinch him? Then I'll tie him up and we can sit down to discuss this like civilized people."

George looked at the sky and threw up his hands. "How Grandmother T'Pol ever managed to..." He snorted and headed down the slope.

"Managed to what?"

"Nothing."

Trip briskly made quick work of lashing the second assassin's ankles and wrists together. "I am startin' to feel like a boy scout again," he joked. He bent the man's knees and looped his bound wrists over his ankles, lashing them into place so that he could not straighten his legs. For the final touch, Trip tied a slipknot and dropped it around the Vulcan's neck, running the line back to the wrists and lashing it securely.

"Saw that in a movie once," he told George with satisfaction. "Always wanted to try it." His descendant shook his head silently. "Now let's go sit down by the water and work this out."

&

George rubbed his tired eyes and led the way back to the spring. Why not? Nothing mattered now anyway. The time line was irrevocably changed and he was never going home again. He would never see his wife and children again. The drug was wearing off, but he felt no inclination to take another dose. A bonded Vulcan who traveled through time would naturally feel the separation acutely. The Vulcan mating bond was capable of bridging space but not time. Bonded Vulcan agents were issued medication to dull the effects of bond separation and permit them to function. George was seriously considering the option of discontinuing his treatments entirely. Let the effect of the severed bonding do its work. Death was better than living this way, knowing what he had done.

Trip walked beside him, shooting frequent glances of concern. A warm flush of family belonging helped diminish some of the desolation. It wasn't Grandfather's fault. He certainly had no way of knowing. And in truth, things were already so screwed up that it wasn't likely that his actions had made them appreciably worse. There had simply been too many changes, too many tiny modifications to the time line in an effort to correct things. But the tiny modifications had bred repercussion after repercussion until it all grew into a landslide that obliterated the future George had known. Obliterating his family...

He still had family here though. Fate had twisted itself into a bewildering shape indeed, leaving him to walk beside a grandfather a third his age on his way to discuss a coming war that had been over almost a millennium before he was born, in an effort to save a world that never was and most likely never would be. Odd indeed.

Trip tossed the dart throwers to one side, seated himself and drew a cup of water. "All right. Tell me about my memoirs. What exactly do they say about those two?" He gestured in the direction of the bound prisoners, still napping in the sun.

George sighed and grimaced. "According to your memoirs, they ambushed you just as you were leaving your day's camp tomorrow at sunset. You barely dodged the first attack. As they were starting to move in and finish the job, the MACOs, which Starfleet had sent to bodyguard you when they found out about those two, arrived and finished them off."

"MACOs?" Trip straightened up. "There are MACOs out there?" George nodded.

"Several," he chuckled. "Not too happy about it, but determined to do their job. They have already made one attempt to stop those two, and had bad luck when they encountered that sandfire," George paused to smile for some reason. "They are very close now, moving in cautiously and trying to scout the area even as we speak."

"That simplifies matters," Trip looked relieved. "We can deliver them to the MACOs."

"Grandfather..."

"Shit! George, I am not going to murder those people!"

George locked his teeth together and turned his head away. What difference did it make anyway?

"Take it easy, Son." Trip said softly. "Look, you said that my memoirs are all you have to go on, right?" George nodded, not looking at him. "And if I understand this right, as long as my memoirs come out all right you really don't _know _for certain fact what actually happened, do you?"

George blinked and looked back at Trip, puzzled. "What are you talking about, Grandfather?"

"It's simple, Son," Trip said with the satisfied air of one solving a difficult equation. "I'll just lie in my memoirs." He waited for a response - in vain. George sat and stared at him, stupified. "C'mon kid, talk to me," Trip urged. "Say something."

"You-"

"Don't look so shocked," Trip told him in exasperation. "You know as well as I do that most historical records are a mixture of imagination and propaganda. If any truth gets in them it's by accident or because the politicians overlooked something. Just tell me what you want me to write, and I'll write it. Or hell, you already have a copy don't you? Just give it to me and save me the time and trouble."

"Ghhh..."

"George? You ok, Son?"

"Yyyy..."

"Here, drink some water," Trip urged.

George gratefully snatched the cup and drained it. Then refilled and drained it again. "You can't be serious."

"Sure I can," Trip insisted. "Look, it's perfect. You get your memoirs. I get to finish up the Kahs-Wahn without those two breathing down my neck, and the MACOs get to drag those two in for questioning. Why won't it work?"

"It will work, Commander," a new voice stated. "Quite nicely in fact." George and Trip started and glared at the sight of two hooded figures who had materialized less than two meters from the spring.

"I wish," Trip groused hotly, "that you would _Quit Doing That _Daniels!" "My apologies, Commander," Daniels threw back his hood. "Old habits you know. It's good to see both of you again. Congratulations, Agent Hopkins, on a job well done."

"Spare me," George snarled and stood up. "If you think-"

"This is not the time for quarreling," the second figure spoke softly but decisively. The voice sounded strange, as if it were being run through an artifical modulator. The figure removed its hood to reveal a face that appeared superficially Human, with one rather noticeable difference. The man's eyes appeared at unpredictable intervals to give off a silvery glow. Prickles ran up George's backbone.

Daniels ran his palms down the sides of his robe. "Commander Tucker, Agent Hopkins, may I present Supervisor Eaytkae. Supervisor Eaytkae is from **Central** Administration."

"I see," George said quietly. He offered the ta'al. "Peace and long life to you and yours, Supervisor." From the corner of his eye he saw Trip standing up slowly and looking wary.

"Live long and prosper, Doctor Hopkins," Eaytkae responded, but did not return the gesture. He turned and told Trip, "Greetings, Commander Tucker. It is an honor and a privilege to meet such a distinguished individual. On behalf of all those yet to be born, I thank you for the future that you have and will help to bequeath to us."

Trip chewed the inside of his cheek and tilted his head slightly. "Yer welcome. Who the hell are you? What's wrong with your eyes?"

The silver-eyed man chuckled softly while Daniels winced and George closed his eyes in pain. "You are aware that your descendant and Mr. Daniels come from the time that you would term the 31st century? My origins are somewhat farther in the future."

"How much farther?" Trip persisted. George tried to make an urgent hand gesture, which Trip ignored.

"It's quite all right, Doctor Hopkins. I am not offended. Curiosity is normal and expected." The figure turned to face Trip again. "Considerably farther, Commander. I honestly cannot tell you what the date would be in your calendar because we don't use your dating system anymore. Suffice that it has been long enough for the forces of natural evolution to work on most of the races that you are familiar with."

"Ouch." Trip rubbed his chin. "So what are you doing all the way back here in the sticks?"

The figure was silent for a moment. "There is an ancient proverb, common to many races, about starting a landslide with a single pebble. Are you familiar with it?" Trip nodded. "There is a certain amount of 'inertia' so to speak in the time stream. That is the closest I can come to describing it in terms your language can handle. However, even changes in the time stream this far back can have a detectable effect on my time period."

"I'll take your word for it," Trip said. "Right now I am too tired to strain about it. Do you want me to write those memoirs, or are you just going to give T'Pol a copy of them when I croak?"

"The latter I think," Eaytkae matter-of-factly. "It will minimize the possibility of screw-ups." Trip burst into honest laughter.

"Fine by me. One less thing to keep track of." He slumped in relief and refilled his water cup. "Any of you guys want some water?" Nobody took him up on it so he knelt and proceeded to pour down a liter while the other three drew off a short distance to confer.

George received his instructions with a surprising mixture of feelings. His relief at going home was actually tempered by a faint regret at leaving his ancient family. To a Vulcan, blood was blood no matter how diluted. What they had been through together was enough to forge bonds of blood and clan that would not break while his katra retained awareness in any form. But his mate was waiting for him.

Trip stood up when George approached. He could see the awareness in his ancestors eyes. "Going home, Son?" George nodded with his throat full. Trip held out his arms wordlessly for a tight embrace. "I'm gonna miss you, Son. Take care of yourself. Tell your wife and kids we love them, willya?"

It took several tries before George managed a strangled yes. Finally they separated with shining eyes and shoulder slaps. "Behave yourself, Gramps." George managed a grin and faded from view.

&

"A sharp whistle and some shouting ought to be sufficient to summon the MACOs," Daniels told Trip. "Failing that, the Vulcans probably carry flares but I advise against using them. It might cause problems with your Kahs-Wahn."

"Not a problem," Trip assured him. "I can handle it."

"I will remain here briefly, under cloak, just in case," Eaytkae told him, "while these others proceed. Again, it was pleasant meeting you Commander." He disappeared abruptly.

"It isn't likely that we will ever meet again," Daniels told him. "For good or bad, it has been a remarkable experience working with you, Commander." He offered his hand and Trip took it in a firm grip.

"Whatever else, you saved my daughter." Trip looked him in the eye. "For that alone I owe you more than I can ever repay. My marker is good. Call it in whenever you need it." Daniel's lips twitched toward a smile.

"I sincerely hope I won't need it, but thanks. Good luck, Commander Tucker." Agent Daniels raised his hand and also faded from view.

Trip blew out his lips and looked around. Then he flinched and touched his lips. Even pursing them hurt. Already, and he had just finished drinking. He really, _really, really, _hated this planet. Ah well.

Trip cupped his hands and howled like a coyote. The piercing yowl echoed back and forth through the rocks and caused a minor uproar among the smaller denizens. Skittering and shufflings abounded. The female Vulcan jerked awake and threw herself onto one side to pin Trip with a murderous stare. He smiled and waved. Then he folded his arms and waited.

A few moments later pebbles rattled. Then a helmet appeared. "Took you boys long enough," Trip grouched. "Stop for a poker game along the way?" He gestured impatiently. "Get down here, willya? I got ground to cover. I can't stand here all day. I still have to rig a shelter, and the sun is already up."

A pair of MACOs in full gear stood at the top of the slope above him, staring down in disbelief. They held what looked like modified versions of the same type of weapons the Vulcans had been carrying. The two, both apparently men, looked at each other and shrugged before starting down to meet him. They stopped just short of the trussed pair, again staring as if they could not believe their eyes.

"Couple of presents for you guys," Trip gestured with elaborate casualness. "They're a little bit big to fit in my pocket. I thought about tossing them back, but then it occurred to me that you might want them. Do you?"

One of the MACOs lifted his chin looking dazed. "You... you knew about us being here?"

"Am I blind?" Trip demanded, acting insulted. "Anyway, do you want these two or not? They won't keep well in this hot sun, that's for sure."

"Yes-" The MACO took a deep breath. "Yessir! We accept custody of the prisoners! Sir!" His companion shook his head sharply, evidently also snapping out of it and straightened to attention.

"Good enough then," Trip approved. "I guess you know who I am. Who are you two?"

"Major Sanchez and Lieutenant Riley, sir," the first MACO responded. "We were sent to intercept these two. Obviously we weren't needed." He looked at Trip respectfully. Riley's eyes were the size of grapefruits. "As soon as the other team arrives we will escort the prisoners to detention."

"They're all yours, Major. Enjoy." Trip grunted and rubbed his eyes. "Screw it. I am just going to put up my shelter here at the spring and wait for sunset. I would lose more time and trouble looking for a new spot than it would be worth. Should be all right as long as I get moving before company starts coming after dark." He turned away and headed back toward the water.

It was amazing what living in a perpetually quiet environment could do for your hearing, Trip had often reflected. Plus it helped that he was becoming acclimated to Vulcan's thin atmosphere and learning to compensate. The whispers behind him were certainly not meant for him to overhear.

_"Holy shit! Two of them! Two VULCANS!" _

_"Keep your voice down Lieutenant." _

_"Sorry. But.."_

_"I know. It blew me away too." _

_"How?!"_

_"You expect me to know? Maybe he learned it in the Expanse. They said Hayes put in extra training for the crew while they were en route, and Hayes was the best there ever was." _

_"Against Humans, yeah. But two Vulcans? Maybe his wife taught him. If that's what living with a Vulcan can do for you, I gotta start hanging around those embassy parties more often." _

_"Or maybe that's the kind of man it takes to catch a Vulcan's interest?" _

Trip dug out his blanket/awning with a secret smile.

&

George phase-matched their coordinates into T'Para's front hallway without altering their temporal inclination. Daniels paused beside him and waited while George took the time for a final look around. In his day this house still stood, still the traditional residence of the Eldest Mother. But so many things were going to change over the centuries that the essence of this older dwelling would barely be detectable. He ran a loving hand over the stonework on the wall and glanced down at the inlaid floors with a sigh. There was no replacing hand crafting, no matter how sophisticated the machinery was.

Soft slippers shuffled closer to the inner doorway, eventually revealing the Eldest herself. George permitted himself the smallest of smiles, just this once, at the sight of her folded hands and perfectly serene expression. "Eldest," he spoke softly and inclined his head. "I come to greet you for the final time, and to speak with you and my foremother if that is possible. My companion is my supervisor, Mr. Daniels, and is known to T'Pol."

"Peace and long life, Mr. Daniels," T'Para offered blandly. "Be welcome to my home. Come, Son of my Clan. Enter and speak what is on your mind." As T'Para led them into the front room she tapped a small silver bell. By the time the old woman had seated herself T'Pol appeared carrying the traditional pitcher of water and cups. At the sight of Daniels she froze briefly but, when George smiled reassuringly, continued onward calmly as if entertaining time travelers was quite passé. Which it actually might be, in this house, George reflected.

"Joege?" A pair of inquisitive little eyes peered around her mother's leg at the two intruders.

George broke into a full smile and said, "Hello, T'Lissa." He offered the ta'al. "Peace and long life."

"Oo too," T'Lissa waved her two handed version of the ta'al at both visitors.

"T'Lissa," her mother told her quietly, "please sit beside me and study your book of Terran geography. Quietly." The little girl obediently climbed up beside T'Pol and accepted the PADD, quickly becoming absorbed.

Daniels drank his cup of water promptly. Not fast enough to be insulting, but not dawdling either. George however, savored his. The feel of the cup in his hands, the flavor of the water, the scent of the Eldest's flowers... it was all irreplaceable. Daniels caught his eye and George sighed, draining the cup and putting it back on the tray. Formalities concluded, they got down to business.

"Lady T'Pol," Daniels said. "There has been a change in plans. A rather significant change. Your meeting with Rinaldo has been rescheduled. I am here to transport you there, where we will meet... another representative of the temporal authority with more information to provide."

"Another representative?" T'Pol's eyebrow was a clear an expression of skepticism as any shout. "Who might this representative be?"

"Urm..." Daniels actually shuffled uncomfortably.

"Mr. Daniels boss," George injected with a touch of malice. "Seems The Powers That Be felt it necessary to take a personal hand this time." Daniels flushed and turned his head away.

"The timeline has been altered," Daniels admitted. "Central Administration has determined that attempting to repair the damage would do more harm than good. The overall course of history has been restored, and with minor variances George and I will return to find our world intact. More to the point in the eyes of Central Administration, the long-term consequences are minimized. So all of our agents are being recalled and a moratorium on time travel has been declared. From this point forward, the primary purpose of the Temporal Enforcement Authority will be to _prevent_ people from traveling in time, not to supervise the use of time travel. Central Administration will monitor the situation and step in with enforcement actions as required."

"The wisdom of this policy is self-evident. Why was is not enacted at the very beginning?" T'Para asked bluntly.

"Because..." Daniels squirmed under the eyes of the old lady. "Because when temporal displacement was perfected in the original time line it was believed that civilization had advanced to the point of being trustworthy." He fell silent, obviously hoping that would be enough.

No such luck. "Your 'Central Administration' has reconsidered this belief?" T'Para asked. Daniels winced, to George's hidden amusement.

"Partly," he admitted reluctantly. "But there is also the fact that in the original time line, temporal displacement was not scheduled to be discovered yet for several centuries. In the new, altered time line I am afraid that this will occur somewhat sooner." He looked mightily distressed. "Much sooner." George felt a touch of foreboding.

"How soon?" T'Pol inquired. "If that will not compromise your oath?"

"I'm not permitted to tell you that," Daniels said apologetically. "Suffice that it will be soon enough for there to be no way to justify open access to the technology. As soon as the first breakthrough is made, operatives from Central Administration will make clandestine contact with Starfleet to set up the Temporal Enforcement Authority."

"I see," T'Pol observed the two men carefully. "And your task, grandson?"

George swallowed. "Mainly I came to say good-bye, Grandmother. I have already said good-bye to Grandfather Tucker, and - By the way, those two assassins are taken care of. They are now in the hands of the MACOs and on their way to interrogation, so you can relax."

T'Pol closed her eyes. A previously imperceptible tension drained away, leaving her looking calmer and more in control. For all the reaction T'Para made, George might have announced that fresh plomeek was on sale. For once T'Pol made no pretense of non-emotion. She opened her eyes and said simply, "Thank you."

George bowed from the waist. "You are most welcome, Honored Foremother."

Daniels announced. "I am sorry, but we really need to finish up things here and go. George does have one more item to take care of however," he added with a smile.

"With your permission, Grandmother?" George asked. "I would like to give T'Lissa a gift."

T'Pol looked intrigued. "What type of gift?"

George walked over and scooped her up. "Come here you little hellion." He got a giggle in reply while seating himself in T'Lissa's former spot. "I want to show you something. Would you like to learn a new game?"

"Uh-huh!" T'Lissa looked up with excitement. "Wanta!"

"All right then," George told her, "let's do this. First, you put your fingers here," he guided her tiny hand to his temple. "Then I put my fingers here," he placed his own fingers against the child's face. Almost instantly T'Lissa's face went slack and her eyes unfocused.

"What are you doing!?" T'Pol lunged to her feet in alarm. She held her hands out, wavering between snatching her daughter away and uncertainty about the safety of interrupting whatever George was in the midst of.

"I," George told her calmly, "am doing almost nothing. My part of this is to remain as passive as possible and let T'Lissa explore her abilities. She needs to learn this, Grandmother. And this is the proper way to introduce her to the technique. Let an experienced family member act as a guide while she tries out her fledgling skills."

"Melding will be a required part of her training?" T'Para inquired.

"Uh... yes," Daniels told them. "For reasons I can't divulge, it is important that she learn melding techniques. In fact-"

George sighed. "Bullshit." Daniels stopped and stared, while the two Vulcan women gave him chiding looks of disapproval. "She needs to learn it because she is scheduled to pioneer a method for-"

_"Shut Up!" _

"- for using mind melding to treat several different types of Human mental illness," George stubbornly finished up. Daniels looked ready to hit him.

"George." Daniels seethed. "You took an oath not to-"

"Oh cram it," George stood up, still holding the nearly comatose toddler tenderly in his arms and keeping his voice to a low monotone. "After all that song and dance with Grandfather's memoirs, do you seriously think they are going to have any problem with this? Besides, we already told them that she needs to learn it. What's the difference if they know why? It just improves the odds of her actually moving in that direction."

"Enough." T'Para's gentle voice whipped across the room and smacked both men across the face like a logging chain. They winced simultaneously and turned to face her with chastened expressions. "So the child will use her gifts bequeathed by her mother's people to heal the ills of her father's people. Once more, she proves herself to be the living embodiment of the IDIC principle."

"You won't be the last one to call her that," Daniels muttered, glancing at T'Lissa. The little girl's hand had slipped away from George's face and her eyes were closed.

"She's asleep," George announced. "May I please be permitted to tuck her in? Just this once?"

T'Pol took a deep breath. "Of course." She pointed down the hall. "I believe you know where her bed is located."

George carefully situated the limp tangle of arms and legs on her pillow, removed her house slippers, and drew up a worn looking blanket that had obviously seen much use. He gazed down and stroked her hair. "Sleep well, Aunt Elizabeth. Dream happy dreams. I will tell your granddaughter how much you have grown since the night we first saw you." He bent forward to place a feather light kiss on her cheek and tip-toed out.

They stood waiting for him. George swallowed a hard lump and crossed his arms with his fingers spread. "Grandmother... I..." He stopped. "I ask pardon for my unseemly display of emotion."

T'Pol stepped forward to touch his fingertips in the ritual gesture of family. "I refuse to grant pardon where none is required or appropriate, George. In all respects, you have brought honor upon our House, our Line, and our Clan. Your absence will be felt most keenly by all of us. But we will rejoice that you have been reunited with your wife and children. Convey to them our greetings and best esteem, if you will."

"I... will... be honored to do so," he managed. T'Para stepped forward and offered her hands. George knelt before reciprocating.

{Thou hast done well, Son of my Clan,} she told him in High Vulcan. {Continue onward as thou hast well begun, and I shall finish this life in full confidence that the future of the Clan lies in capable hands.}

"I shall strive to do so, Eldest," George told her, "to the utmost limits of my abilities." He stood up and took a single step back. "I should go now, while I am still able to maintain some control." He looked around the room one more time. "Goodbye."

Then he was gone.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Purgatory **

**By Blackn'blue (aka Bluenblack) **

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Star Trek. I wrote this for fun.

**Note:** Vulcan terms used in this story were taken from the online Vulcan Language Dictionary, the Vulcan Language Institute, or I made them up myself.

**Description:** This is the fourth story in my series that began as a Finale Fix and then got out of hand. I suggest reading the preceding stories before tackling this one. Otherwise many of the references won't make any sense, since several ongoing plot lines are continued and completed in this story.

For Want of A Nail

In which the inimitable Temporal Agent Daniels visits T'Pol in the depths of despair and brings new hope. Twisted time lines are somewhat straightened, previously overlooked problems are addressed, long lost relatives are discovered, T'Pol cops an attitude, and dead people aren't - or rather shouldn't be and therefore weren't.

In the Cold of the Night

In which Trip makes a fashion statement, we learn more than we want to know about Vulcan baby showers and le-matyas, lawyers act like lawyers, some Andorians join the party, we get a detailed look at the inner workings of Terra Prime, Soval takes a stroll down memory lane, and we learn that it's a supremely BAD idea to piss off a Vulcan mommy.

Father to the Man 

In which some long hidden truths see the light of day, Trip and T'Pol have their first real fight, T'Pau gets into the act, T'Pol has to bite the bullet and Trip has to bite his tongue, we learn what Koss has been up to and wish we hadn't, the cloak and dagger stuff on Earth spills over to Enterprise and gets the kitchen all bloody, the Andorians see their chance and jump on it.

Purgatory

This one. It's time to wrap things up. If you haven't read the previous 8 chapters, don't bother with this one. You won't have a clue about what's going on.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

T'Pol blinked. For some reason the transition felt different. Perhaps even more abrupt than usual for time travel. Of course, they were simply transferring location. Perhaps that was it. She recovered her balance with her normal speed and glanced around quickly to make a survey of the terrain.

She and Daniels had transferred from T'Para's house directly into a meeting room of some kind. Human built, obviously. From the temperature, humidity and gravity T'Pol deduced that they were inside the embassy. This flickered through her mind like heat lightening along with a vague impression of marble flooring and wall panels, and a large faux oaken table in the center of the room surrounded by chairs. It was the occupants of the chairs, and most especially the new person standing in the room, who seized her attention.

T'Pol felt power radiating from the strange figure, telepathic and otherwise. At P'Jem, when the priesthood gathered together to commune as one, she had felt their combined mental abilities blending. At the time T'Pol had been awestruck by the concentrated power she sensed. But this single individual gave the impression of far greater power alone than all of the priests of P'Jem could have mustered together. Psychic energy whipped and crackled in the very air around him, intimidating anyone who had even the most rudimentary ability to sense it. Human his ancestors may have been, at least in part. But he was not Human now, nor Vulcan, nor anything else she had ever encountered.

"Daniels." Captain Archer's voice carried a mixture of chagrin, disgust, fatigue, curiosity, and sheer aggravation. "What the hell do you want now?" He stood up. "And who is this other guy with you?"

"Captain!" T'Pol caught Archer's eye, indicating the newcomer with a tilt of her head. "I recommend discretion."

Archer's eyes narrowed. He glanced from T'Pol to the unknown figure. The other men at the table shifted around to stare at the time travelers and T'Pol. "Please sit down, Captain. All will be made clear," the newcomer told him in a friendly voice. Archer sat.

Daniels cleared his throat nervously. "Gentlemen, and Lady T'Pol, may I present Supervisor Eaytke from Temporal Central Administration. Supervisor Eaytke has assumed direct authority over this era. He will be in charge of maintaining temporal integrity from now on."

The stranger turned toward her and T'Pol felt a shock run through her system. His eyes burned with a cold silver fire of pure energy. She attempted to reinforce her already tight shields and saw a faint smile touch his lips. He inclined his head and gestured at the table. "Lady T'Pol, if you would please be so good as to take a seat, we can proceed with this meeting."

"With all due respect, sir," a man carefully spoke up, and T'Pol recognized Ambassador Trask. "There was already a meeting underway." Eaytke ignored him and walked to the foot of the table, provoking a flush.

"I will expedite this as much as possible," Eaytke announced. "We-"

"Just a minute." Vice-Admiral Jendaro was boiling. Through clenched teeth he demanded. "How did you two get in here? This room is sealed. This is a top secret classified meeting, command staff or above clearance only. But the two of you just waltz in here and start babbling this nonsense about temporal shit that Archer tries to peddle. I don't know why -"

Eaytke looked at him. Jendaro's mouth clamped shut and he froze. Nothing moved on Jendaro's body. Not his mouth, nor his hands, nor his eyes. He did not shift position, nor did he blink. T'Pol could not even detect that he was breathing. "There we go," Eaytke said pleasantly. He turned back to the table. "The Vice-Admiral will not be harmed. You can all brief him later. My natural lifespan is considerably longer than your own. However, I see no reason to waste it arguing with fools. Does anyone else feel an irrepressible need to interrupt me?" No one volunteered. "Excellent. Agent Daniels and I have come here to provide you with information that you will need in order to win your upcoming war with the Romulan Empire."

Archer started to speak, but settled back down. Daniels glanced at Eaytke, who nodded. "What is it, Captain?"

"Not important," Archer said. "I was just under the impression that you tried to hide the future from us as much as you could."

"Ordinarily correct, Captain Archer," Eaytke told him. "But this case is unusual in many ways. The original timeline at this point has been massively corrupted. Our primary and overriding objective is to repair the most blatant damage to history and ensure that major events occur, and with the proper timing. I am suspending the standard protocols for this mission in the interest of expediting the greater mission objective."

Archer said tiredly, "So we are definitely going to war with the Romulans? There is no way to avoid it? We were hoping that perhaps a diplomatic-"

"None." Eaytke flicked a finger. "Dismiss the idea completely. The Romulans intend to expand into this part of the Alpha quadrant. Their plans have been building for generations, and no amount of diplomacy will change that. The most serious obstacle to their plans is the formation of the fledgling Coalition of Planets, with Earth and Humanity as the driving force. Thus, their first target will be the Human species, with the intent of driving you out of interstellar politics."

"They don't know us very well," Rinaldo smiled faintly.

"They don't know or understand Humans at all during this time period," Daniels admitted tiredly. "That misunderstanding is going to cost them, and you, millions of lives. We want to give you a technical edge. Since you are going to ultimately win anyway, at least with better ships and weapons you can finish the carnage as swiftly as possible."

"What exactly are you going to give us?" Archer wanted to know.

Eaytke looked at Daniels, who seemed surprised. "First of all, Captain. We intend to expedite your technology trade with the Andorians. As you know there are some interests, mainly Vulcan, who are not happy about this. We will make sure that they cause no problems."

"Thank you," Trask smiled affably. "That will be very helpful indeed. Most gracious of you." Daniel's lips twitched.

"Happy to help, Mr. Ambassador," he said ironically. "We are also helping out indirectly." He paused and cleared his throat. "This is somewhat embarrassing. Ur, Mr.... Jones? I believe is the name you currently use?"

"That is correct," Rinaldo told him easily. "My name is Robert Jones. I am the assistant manager for the maintenance staff here at the embassy."

Eaytke started chortling. "This is lovely." He noticed them staring and shook his head. "I sincerely ask your pardon. I mean no offense. But I love to study the games that are played in the early times, and the various types of subterfuge that are employed. For countless reasons none of them would work in my time, but the creativity that you exhibit is quite enchanting. Please continue." He actually grinned.

Daniels hesitated, then shrugged. "Anyway. Mr. Jones, you may or may not be aware that your Section on Earth had a prisoner under interrogation until early this morning, when he disappeared. That prisoner provided Humans with all the data they need to install deflector shields and tractor beams on their warships."

"I see." Rinaldo looked intent. "One of your operatives no doubt?"

"Yes, of course," Daniels confirmed. "At the time we were still attempting to maintain anonymity. Be aware that even with this information, the shields and tractor beams you install will not be as good as the ones on the Romulan ships. Earth simply does not have the production capability at this point in time. But at least you will have them. Otherwise your ships would be easy meat."

"I'm sure we can improve the design on our own," Archer said confidently. "Especially once Trip gets back. By the way..." He looked at T'Pol.

"He is well and safe, that is all I can tell you," T'Pol responded.

"Commander Tucker has been of incomparable assistance in repairing the time line," Eaytke said seriously. "Without his help the entire course of history might well have been derailed. Certainly, you would not be receiving this assistance. It is even possible that you might lose the upcoming war."

"Really? What did he do?" Archer looked back and forth from the time travelers to T'Pol.

"Several things," Eaytke told him, "But this is one case where revealing the truth could potentially cause harm. It might even undo some of the repair work. Suffice that you will soon learn part of the truth through your own official sources. In any case, there is one more matter to deal with. Lady T'Pol, working on her own and making use of her own resources, has managed to achieve a major advantage for Earth."

"Again?" Archer rubbed his face. "I wish I could find half a dozen Humans who have done as much for Earth as you have." T'Pol looked down and felt the tips of her ears getting hot. "You deserve a lot more recognition and thanks than you have gotten." He paused. "So what did you do?"

Daniels answered for her. "T'Pol has arranged a second, clandestine, technology swap with the Tellarites. Their ship hulls in return for Human photonic torpedoes."

"_T'POL!" _Archer howled. "No! You didn't!" He leaped to his feet and and actually grabbed a handful of his hair with one hand, waving the other hand randomly through the air. "Tell me it wasn't you that stole our torpedo! _ Please!" _

"Actually," Daniels coughed into his hand, "it was not Lady T'Pol who took your torpedo." Archer slumped in relief. "She merely brokered the exchange with the Tellarites and delivered it." Captain Archer dropped into his chair put his face in his hands, moaning in what sounded like real pain.

Trask cleared his throat. "I am embarrassed to admit it, but I am not up to speed on the advantages of Tellarite hulls. Could someone please enlighten me?"

Eaytke replied offhandedly, "At this point in time the three dominant races in this portion of the Alpha quadrant, Vulcan, Andorian, and Tellarite each have their own particular talents."

Trask nodded. "OK, I can follow that much. I know that Vulcans make the best computer systems in this part of space, and even the Andorians admit it."

"Correct." Eaytek smiled at Trask as if he were a pupil who had answered a math quiz with the right answer. "Vulcans excel at computer science, logistics, or any other field which requires rigorous application of rote data processing. Conversely, Andorians are exceptionally talented with multi-dimensional physics. Their mindset, and their innate sensory arrangement, gives them an advantage in this area. As a result, Andorian ships have the most powerful and efficient drives in the quadrant in this time period."

"And the Tellarites have a talent for ship hulls?" Trask asked.

Eaytke chuckled. "In a sense. The Tellarites have a genius for material science. Their metallurgical skills in particular are unsurpassed. They lack the Andorian talent for warp physics, and they are not as adept with computers as the Vulcans. Thus their engines are neither as powerful nor as efficient as the Andorians. But the Tellarites are able to bypass this limitation by building ships that are proportionately stronger than anything produced by any other race. This allows them to mount engines that, while they may be inefficient, are still significantly larger and more powerful than their enemies."

"Ah..." Trask nodded. "Light breaks through the darkness. With Tellarite hulls we can mount oversized Andorian engines." He smiled. "Which means our ships will be faster than either one. Which, unless I am mistaken, will also go far toward adjusting Vulcan attitudes about our trading relationship."

&

Trip whistled and poured another full canteen over his head, scratching deep into his scalp with his nails. _"Man, that feels good,"_ he thought. It wasn't a shower, but it was the closest thing to one that Trip had enjoyed since he came into this hell hole.

The sun had passed far enough to leave the whole mini-canyon in shade. The second group of MACOs had come and gone, taking the two Vulcan prisoners with them. Trip had fought hard to maintain a poker face at the slack jawed stares the newcomers inundated him with, but he thought T'Pol would have been proud of him. With maybe an hour left to kill until time to move out, it occurred to Trip that there was nothing but le'matyas and sehlats and such minor annoyances left to distract him. So he immediately stripped naked and started scrubbing off the sweaty grime of several days and nights.

"_Good thing they only keep watchers at the first and last watering spots,"_ Trip reflected. _ "If a Vulcan caught me using drinking water to do this,"_ he used a wet sock to thoroughly scrub his privates, _"they would bust a blood vessel."_

He didn't care. He had reached the point where death by abrasion from built up salt crystals started to look like a real possibility. The stink of his own hide was almost an open invitation to scavengers – surely nothing alive could smell this bad. Even without soap it was unbelievable how much difference a good hard scrubbing could make. Trip's skin was dry almost before he finished rinsing it, and his clothing dried before he got done washing his hide. His socks were last, since he used them as wash rags. He gave them a double once over and turned them inside out several times to make sure that they were bone dry before he put them back on. Feeling Human again, he considered the best option for the night's run.

The next checkpoint was deep into the hills. He would have to climb one cliff face, and rappel down two more. Should he try to make the full run in one night? Or split it between two nights and then work to make up the difference on the easier runs later on? Trip decided to wait and see what kind of condition he was in after making the climb.

The sun was hitting the horizon line. Close enough. Time to go. He started walking and counting his paces, then he broke into a trot. Then a few paces running, making sure at all times to keep his breathing steady.

Nothing was going to stop him now. Nothing.

&

Soval took yet another deep breath and focused. Maintaining control was becoming increasingly challenging in the face of Sub-Minister V'Rald's tirade. However, it was not his place to offer an objection. A mere ambassador did not presume to interrupt the deliberations of the planetary High Council. Not even when the speaker was only a Sub-Minister.

"We have already seen ample evidence," V'Rald was ranting, "of complicity between Andoria and Earth regarding military as well as economic threats against our people. If we permit this technology exchange to occur, it will be seen as proof of weakness by the Andorians and an open invitation for them to move forward."

"In practical terms, V'Rald," T'Pau asked him bluntly, "what do you suggest that we do about it?"

"We must use whatever means are necessary to prevent this exchange from taking place," V'Rald said decisively.

"What specific means do you refer to, Sub-Minister?" Kuvak wondered. "Our available options are limited. The Humans are quite enthusiastic about the advantages to be gained from this exchange, and it is unlikely that we could offer them anything of sufficient value to dissuade them from following through with it. And of course, our influence with the Andorians is nonexistent."

"The threat is grave. We must be prepared to protect our interests." V'Rald raised his voice. "It is unfortunate, but it may be necessary to consider taking direct action if they prove recalcitrant in this matter."

_*****Blinding Pain!*****_

Soval gasped and pressed his fingers to his temples. He recited the forms and went through the breathing disciplines of pain suppression. Then he did it again. Then one more time.

A voice. Distant, but comprehensible. "I regret the discomfort. However Vulcans, particularly in this era, are notoriously reluctant to embrace new concepts. I am equally reluctant to spend valuable lifespan on redundant persuasion. Therefore a brief demonstration seemed the most logical course."

Soval blinked away the blurred vision to note the sudden presence of two newcomers in the Council's private meeting chambers. Both appeared superficially Human, until the taller of the pair turned and Soval saw his eyes. Shock vied with the ongoing pain in his mind for prominence. The ambassador glanced around the room to note several members of the Council were slumped over the table semi-conscious. Soval reached deep into his mind and attempted to raise his shields, only to realize to his distress that they were already in place at maximum strength. The stranger had simply crushed them without effort, as he had apparently crushed the shields of every Vulcan in the room.

T'Pau was hanging onto awareness, but just barely. She croaked, "If your intent was to demonstrate your mental abilities, consider your point made. Your actions are causing significant distress for every Vulcan in this room. Please desist."

"Certainly." The pain was gone as if it had never been. People began to stir all over the room. Soval noted that there were even a few mild grunts. Perhaps the cause was sufficient, he considered. The degree of pain had been intense.

The taller stranger looked at the more normal seeming Human, who stepped forward and cleared his throat. "I am Agent Daniels, of the Federation Temporal Enforcement Authority. My companion is Supervisor Eaytke, of Temporal Central Administration. Supervisor Eaytke is responsible for the administration and safeguarding of history for this particular... portion... of space/time." The Human stepped back behind his superior and assumed the position that Soval recognized as 'parade rest'.

"Indeed," T'Pau said dryly. "You are of course aware that the Vulcan Science Directorate has proven that time travel is inherently impossible?"

Eaytke snorted impatiently. "I have already warned you once of my distaste for wasting valuable lifespan. Do you require further demonstrations?"

T'Pau waved her hand mildly. "By no means. But if you ask us to believe something that our own scientists have told us is impossible, is it too much to request a brief explanation?"

"I suppose not," Eaytke told her grudgingly. He turned to Daniels and shook his head. "You were quite correct. Even after seeing and hearing it for myself, I find it difficult to credit. But I acknowledge that your warning was well given." He waved Daniels forward.

The Human squared his shoulders and addressed T'Pau. "The simplest explanation is this. Your Science Directorate is wrong. This is the same Science Directorate that proved Vulcan and Human DNA to be completely incompatible. This is the same Directorate that proved a matter transporter could not possibly function because it violated the principle of the conservation of mass/energy. This is the same Directorate that proved a dual nacelle warp drive was inherently incapable of exceeding warp three. Given their demonstrated incompetence, why do you still depend on their opinion?"

"Enough, Human!" V'Rald stepped forward.

"By the dead gods of Qo'noS," Soval heard Eaytke mutter, "another one."

The Sub-Minister belligerently entered the open area before the Council table to confront the newcomers and sneered in their faces. "What kind of fools do you take us for?"

"I am not certain, Sub-Minister," Daniels replied calmly. "What kind of fool would you prefer to be taken for?" V'Rald's face turned deep emerald and his hand half raised. Eaytke's sigh was clearly audible as he flicked one finger nonchalantly. A tiny spark leaped from his hand and struck V'Rald's mid-section. The Sub-Minister was instantly engulfed in a sheath of glowing white energy and hurled backward at high speed until his progress was interrupted by the far wall of the meeting chamber. There was a substantial thud and a faint vibration which Soval was able to detect through the seat of his chair. The energy sheath disappeared and V'Rald slid to the floor, unconscious.

"My stock of patience is rapidly becoming depleted," Eaytke stated in a tone that Humans would classify as testy. "We have already briefed the Terrans of this time in their assigned roles. Whatever else may be said of their primitive minds, to their credit only one demonstration was required to get them to shut up and listen. It is imperative that you not only believe, but that you comply. Therefore I will agree to Agent Daniel's suggestion and offer one final demonstration in the hope that it will convince you. If this is not sufficient I will have no option but to utilize force to ensure that the time stream is properly maintained. The choice is yours."

Soval jerked in his chair. All of his senses deactivated for a timeless interval, then re-engaged. He blinked and looked around to find himself sitting in the same chair but in a different room—a very different room. The High Council was also present, still sitting at their table. However the room was several times larger than before with a domed ceiling supported by curved metallic beams. Between the beams the ceiling appeared to consist of some type of multi-hued synthetic material that shifted color according to one's angle of view. The floor was covered by a deep gray carpet. Immediately behind the Council's transported table was a straight wall, plain beige, with a red double door in the center.

Most disturbing of all, aside from the single solid wall, the remaining circumference of the room consisted of a clear material which revealed nothing but an uninterrupted starfield. This, in addition to the gravity field that Soval estimated to be approximately one tenth Vulcan normal, informed him that they had all been moved into space.

The red door split open to allow passage of a young Vulcan male wearing a black uniform and carrying a tray with a pitcher and cups. He paused just inside the room, offering the ta'al. "Peace and long life to you all. I am Ensign Lorcas of the Federation Temporal Enforcement Authority. Welcome to Space Station E-1. The admiral will be with you soon." He moved forward and started passing around the customary welcoming cups of water. Once formalities had been observed, Lorcas walked back to the door and pressed a button twice.

The door dilated again and a strange looking vehicle came through. It was either a very large motorized chair or a very small ground car. Soval could not determine which. The operator was by far the oldest Human that Soval had ever seen. The few wisps of silver hair remaining on his scalp merely accentuated the liver spots and wrinkles. His ears however, might well have been invisible were it not for the tufts that emerged from their depths. His wasted arms culminated in large bony hands that, although gaunt, still retained an impression of competence as the manipulated the controls of his chair. His body was hidden in the depths of the chair from the chest down. His blue eyes were laser bright.

Soval rose respectfully, along with the rest of the Vulcans. Although it was likely that the Human was no older than Soval, given the difference in lifespans, his extreme decrepitude entitled him to the courtesy. The Human pulled into place adjacent to the table and spoke, "Good afternoon, folks. My name is Admiral Dr. Leonard McCoy. I am supposed to be retired, and would be if they didn't keep harassing me every time I turn around to come back out here and fix something. Harrumph." He rubbed his mouth and shifted position. "I have to apologize for not standing up. I can still function in low grav like this, but I haven't walked in years. Spinal nerves went kaput on me."

"Your apology is illogical and unnecessary," T'Pau informed him. McCoy gave her a keen look and abruptly smiled. Incongruously, his teeth were perfect. No doubt false, Soval reflected.

"You haven't changed much, Lady. Or rather, you won't change much. Please, everyone sit back down so we can get started." He turned his head and ordered, "Ensign, we may be here a while. How about you go get our guests some tea and assorted fruit."

Lorcas hesitated and looked uncertain. McCoy waited a moment and snapped impatiently, "Well, what is it boy? Speak up."

Lorcas walked over to the Admiral's chair and started to bend over, but McCoy impatiently waved him off. "Just say it, Ensign."

The young man looked uncomfortable. "Sir. At the point in Vulcan history from which our guests were extracted, it was not customary to offer food and drink during a business discussion. Once the traditional water had been offered-"

"Bah!" Lorcas halted. McCoy glared at him. "Ensign, how old am I?"

Soval listened in shock as Ensign Lorcas dutifully repeated, "One hundred and seventy-two years, eleven months, and three days, sir."

"How many of those years have I spent working around Vulcans?"

"One hundred and thirty-nine, sir."

"How old are you, Ensign?" Lorcas winced.

"Forty-one years, nineteen days, sir."

"Go fetch the snacks, Ensign."

"Yes, sir."

McCoy waited until the young officer had left before leaning back and stretching. He met the fascinated eyes of the High Council members and noted, "He's a good kid. He really is. He'll make a fine captain someday, once he turns loose of this idea that the universe operates by some kind of rule book." The old man leaned forward again. "Anyway. Those stuffed shirts in the Temporal Division came banging on my door a few days ago, begging and crying for me to come out here and talk to you folks. I finally agreed to do it just to get them to shut up."

Soval intercepted a direct look from T'Pau. He delicately made the attention catching noise that Humans referred to as throat clearing. When Admiral McCoy looked his way Soval asked him, "From your phrasing, I gather that you are not a member of the Temporal authority?"

"Oh Lord, no," McCoy snorted. "I'm a doctor, not a time jumper. They dragged me into this because they think I have some special connections that they can get some use out of. That's all."

"Connections?" Soval asked delicately. The others waited while the experienced diplomat dealt with this unusual Human. It was the most logical course of action.

"Well," McCoy rubbed his chin thoughtfully and glanced around the table, pausing to spend a few extra seconds examining T'Pau and, for some reason, Ministers Kuvak and Solkar. "Let us say that I will be associated in your future with some people that are going to be important to some of you."

Ensign Lorcas reappeared with the requested food and drink. The old Human directed him to distribute tea and a plate of assorted fruit slices to each Vulcan. Courtesy leaving no option, the Council members accepted the hospitality and listened with interest while McCoy offered general information about their location.

"This place, Station E-1, is located in an area that you haven't yet reached," he told them, before taking a sip of his tea. He grimaced and looked accusingly at the Ensign.

"I regret, Admiral," Lorcas told him firmly, "that Dr. Krell has forbidden the addition of processed sugars to your beverages. As you are well aware." McCoy growled something inaudible even to Vulcan hearing and looked back at the Council table.

"Anyway, we are about a year out from Vulcan at Warp 5," he continued. "This station is located deep in the heart of Federation territory though. Our ships usually keep a standard cruising speed around Warp 8, unless an emergency comes up. We really try not to exceed Warp 9 unless things get serious. We find that odd things can happen to space/time sometimes when you get above Warp 10. It's better not to take the chance if it can be avoided."

"I see," Soval said calmly. "It seems a reasonable precaution. Would it be possible for you to inform us of the current year?"

"Sure," McCoy said casually, "It's Stardate 8423.5-"

"Admiral!" Lorcas was standing stiffly with a look of distress on his face. "Please forgive the interruption, sir. But Starfleet Command specifically ordered that only the minimum necessary details be released. According to the uptime reports, contamination of the time line has already been profound. Providing further unnecessary information could only endanger matters to an even greater degree."

McCoy paused with his cup half raised. His face slowly changed and he put the cup down as a look of profound sadness came over his countenance. "You are right, Ensign. God knows I should understand that, if anyone does. I'm sorry. I guess I really am too senile to be allowed out without a keeper."

"Certainly not, sir," Lorcas looked scandalized. "I am merely here to assist you in keeping track of extraneous details." McCoy chuckled wryly.

"All right, kid. You go ahead and keep up with the details. Just watch me like a hawk and don't let me do anything too stupid if you can stop me in time, ok?"

"I shall do my best, sir," Lorcas told him gravely. McCoy grinned at him and coughed into his hand.

Soval watched the byplay with interest. He had never seen a Human and a Vulcan work together in such a relationship before. During his time at the earth embassy, on the extremely rare occasions where a student/mentor arrangement existed, the Vulcan was always the teacher. Soval found this reversal of roles quite fascinating.

T'Pau, who had been leaning back in silence and listening like a sehlat waiting for her prey, stirred and sat up. "Admiral McCoy. You spoke earlier of connections. Please specify." She forbore to ask what a Stardate was.

McCoy leaned on one elbow and looked steadily at her. He maintained silence for several minutes, long enough for several members of the Council to start showing signs of discomfort. T'Pau however, merely waited.

"I can see her." McCoy spoke the words idly, without shifting position.

"To whom do you refer?" T'Pau asked him dispassionately.

"You," McCoy told her. "Your future self. I can look at you here and now, sitting at this table. But in my mind's eye, I can see the old woman that you will become when I first met you, many years in your future when I was the young man just starting out. Ironic, isn't it?"

T'Pau raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. If this is true I find it quite ironic."

"Oh, it's true. I assure you, Lady T'Pau." McCoy gave a twisted smile. "You have no idea how true it is." He laughed softly and shook his head. "You were, rather you will be, officiating at a wedding. I will be present as a guest of the groom." He looked keenly at her. "Remember my name, T'Pau. Dr. Leonard McCoy. Can you remember it? A fairly young Human male, dark hair, Starfleet medical uniform. Dr. Leonard McCoy. Remember that name for the rest of your life, Minister T'Pau of Vulcan. If you forget your own name between now and then, so be it. But remember mine. Can you do that?"

T'Pau sat stiffly. "I am quite capable of remembering any number of names, Admiral. You seem to have a very inflated opinion of your own importance. Why is it so critical that I remember your name?"

McCoy leaned forward. "Not just my name, Lady," he spoke grimly. "Remember all of it. Remember that you'll be officiating at a wedding. Remember my name. Remember that I'll be a doctor in Starfleet. Remember that I'll be a guest of the groom. And one thing more. This is the most important thing of all." He glared at her. "Remember to give me room to work. I'll ask you for some things. Let me have them. They won't be big things. You won't have to violate any of your precious Vulcan customs or traditions. Just let me have them. Grant my requests. And have a little faith in that famous Human deviousness. That's all you'll have to do. If you do that, everything will turn out all right. It may not seem like it at the time, but keep the faith. Be patient. In the end it will all work out."

T'Pau sat rigidly. Soval considered the probabilities. For T'Pau to officiate at a wedding, it would have to be a Vulcan ceremony. If McCoy was invited as a guest, the groom would most probably either be a member of Starfleet or a Human, if not both. And for McCoy, a healer, to emphasize that he would require "room to work" indicated... Soval winced.

"I will remember everything you have said, Doctor McCoy," T'Pau finally told him.

"Good," McCoy slumped back in relief. "Millions of lives depend on it, Lady." The entire Council stiffened as one person. "At _least_ one war will be averted if you follow through on what I asked. At least one war. Maybe more than one."

"So this is the connection you referred to?" Soval asked him.

"One of them," McCoy rubbed his eyes and looked tired. Lorcas quickly moved over to the chair and opened a compartment on the side. He withdrew a hypospray and showed it to McCoy, who nodded and held out his arm. Lorcas administered the medication and keyed several controls on the chair, watching some kind of monitor closely. In a few seconds McCoy started breathing deeply and straightened up. Lorcas replaced the hypo and stepped back, resuming his position behind the admiral.

"Sorry about that," McCoy told them. "Old age is not only inconvenient, it's also undignified." Soval started to speak, but McCoy waved him to silence. "Never mind. Let's move on with this." He pressed a key on the arm of his chair and spoke into the comm. "We're ready in here Saavik. Come on in."

McCoy looked at the door, which naturally drew the attention of everyone else in the room. In five point three minutes the door parted to admit a Vulcan woman of full maturity, accompanied by a young Vulcan male approximately two thirds grown. They stopped to offer the ta'al and standard greeting, followed immediately by the young male walking swiftly across the room toward McCoy. The youngster was wearing a completely inappropriate smile, which paled in comparison to the admiral's grin. McCoy held out both hands, which the youngster gripped firmly.

"It's good to see you again, Selek," McCoy told the boy.

"It is equally good to see you again, Godfather," the youngster replied. The woman approached at a more dignified pace, wearing an expression of resigned patience. McCoy released the boy's hands to take hers, which she permitted without hesitation.

"Saavik." He held her hands and looked closely at her. "How are you? How have you been? How's that rock headed husband of yours?" He released her hands and settled back. Soval could only glimpse a portion of the woman's profile, but she appeared unfazed by the Human's enthusiasm.

"We are all well, Leonard. Spock is currently on Bajor in company with Ambassador Worf, engaged in negotiating the new trade routes for the Alliance agreement. Selek and I are still dwelling in Spock's ancestral home while Selek pursues his studies. I am continuing in my assistant professorship at the University of Shi'kahr."

McCoy sighed. "It's been too long, girl. Much too long." He paused to look at them both for a moment longer. Then he turned his chair to face the council table again and moved forward half a meter. "You asked about connections? Here's one that should catch your attention. Minister Solkar, I believe you have a son named Skon?"

Solkar looked startled for an instant, but recovered swiftly. Of course. "That is correct, admiral. My son has recently become bonded."

McCoy nodded. "Their first child will be a boy. Seems like your family tends to run to boys for some reason. Just happens that way sometimes." He turned and beckoned the newcomers forward. "Minister Solkar, I present to you the grandson of your grandson. Selek."

The boy stiffened and looked wide eyed. He stared at Solkar, then looked at his mother and McCoy for confirmation. They both nodded. Solkar sat like a stone figure. "I can only presume this to be what Humans refer to as a joke. I will tell you that I find it most distasteful."

"I figured that you would react like that," McCoy sighed. "Blasting a new concept into a Vulcan skull requires a phaser drill and half a kilo of antimatter." Several of the Ministers looked disgruntled. "Go ahead, Selek," McCoy told the boy. "Show him."

Selek looked terrified. Saavik placed a hand on her son's shoulder and said evenly, "Be at ease, my son. I will accompany you in offering respects to your forefather." The two of them paced together around the end of the table to stand beside Solkar's chair. Selek hesitantly offered his crossed hands in the palm forward gesture of familial greeting and bowed his head.

Solkar and looked at the boy. He raised his eyes to look at Saavik, then back at the boy. He did not raise his hands or offer to respond... until McCoy snapped out, "Coward." Solkar's head jerked around and he shot a blazing glare at the old Human. Then he leaned forward to place his fingertips against Selek's. The two of them closed their eyes briefly.

Solkar's eyes flashed open and his head snapped up. He stared at Selek, then at Saavik. He offered his hands to the young woman, who reciprocated. After both had undergone the ritual greeting the Minister sat back looking stunned. "It is true." The room exploded into speech.

Solkar braced a shaking hand on the table and stood up. He looked down at the boy, then reached out to place his fingers against the contact points on Selek's face. Saavik started to raise a hand, but stopped herself. The conversations among the other members of the Council died away while the meld continued. Finally Solkar withdrew his hand and spoke, "I perceive." He looked at Saavik. "You... you are not..."

"No," she told him. "I am half Romulan."

It was one shock too many. Not only did no one speak, Soval strongly suspected a temporary suspension of respiration throughout the entire room.

Solkar took this latest revelation in stride, however. He merely nodded and looked back at his descendant. "Then it is your father."

Selek raised his chin. "Yes. I never had the advantage of knowing my grandmother. However I am reliably informed that she was a most admirable woman."

"I am certain that she must have been," Solkar agreed gravely.

"She was," McCoy offered sadly. "A most admirable and remarkable woman." He leaned back in his chair.

"Is this demonstration sufficient?" A new voice asked. Soval turned to see that Daniels and Eaytke had appeared near the outer wall. The star studded backdrop offered a rather disconcerting contrast to the silver glow of the Temporal Supervisor's eyes.

"Shit!" McCoy jerked in his chair. He started reaching for something at the side of his chair but his hand stopped in mid-lunge, as if it were being caught and held.

"Please, Admiral McCoy," Daniels soothed. "We mean no harm. I am sorry that we startled you. I am Agent Daniels and this is Supervisor Eaytke. We are with the Temporal Authority."

"Supervisor?" McCoy made a strangled noise. "That... thing!... is a _supervisor?_ Do you have any idea what that thing is capable of?"

"Actually, he does," Eaytke responded. "I presume your reaction is based on a misunderstanding." He looked at Daniels, who hurriedly stepped forward to speak swiftly and rapidly into McCoy's ear at some length.

McCoy slowly sat back, not relaxing at all. "So you're from that far uptime, are you? Hm... Why'd they send someone like you all the way back here to herd monkeys?" His suspiciously narrowed eyes never left Eaytke.

The Temporal Supervisor returned McCoy's look with mild interest. "I assure you, Dr. McCoy, that I have not the slightest interest in causing harm to any of you. Given the realities of genetic distribution, it is a simple fact that everyone in this room is my direct ancestor. As to why I am here? I am here because extreme situations call for extreme measures. In order to ensure that the time line is repaired, or at least patched, sufficiently well to allow my time period to exist requires the intervention of agents with abilities that will not become extant for several... centuries."

"Several thousand centuries, you mean," McCoy said tightly. "The report said Mitchell claimed it would take a million years. All right. Take over then. Like I could stop you."

"Thank you, Admiral," Agent Daniels told him. He turned to address the Council. "Ambassador Soval, Ministers. Have you seen enough to convince you that temporal displacement is a fact?"

"Yes." Sokar's voice was decisive. No one felt like contradicting him. T'Pau looked thoughtful.

"Ambassador Soval?" Daniels looked at him. "You will be the one primarily responsible for interacting with the Humans during their upcoming war with the Romulan empire." Soval flinched. "Are you satisfied that we are telling you the truth? It is especially crucial that you believe us."

Soval slumped, feeling defeated. "Yes. I believe you. Too many things have happened over the last few years. Too many coincidences. Too many eyewitness testimonies from people that I trust. And now this." He squared his shoulders. "I believe you. But are you certain that war is inevitable between the Humans and the Romulans?"

"Yes," Daniels said.

"Yes," Eaytke said.

"Yes," Saavik said.

"Yes," McCoy said.

"Yes," Lorcas said.

Selek merely nodded solemnly.

T'Pau told the temporal agents, "If you will return us to our chamber, we will undertake to offer whatever assistance to the Humans may be within our power. We failed them as allies when they were threatened by the Xindi. We will not make that mistake again."

&

Lt. Commander Reed yawned and picked up a tray. The dinner line was thinning out. Not surprising, since he was almost an hour late. But this almost counted as being ahead of schedule considering the way his days had been running since he took over as XO. How T'Pol had ever managed to find time to eat and sleep was beyond him. But then again, she was Vulcan. Maybe she simply didn't eat or sleep.

He glanced over the selection while he idly pondered what could be taking the captain so long. The meeting at the embassy was supposed to be a two hour affair. It was now running into its fifth hour and no word yet of any pending conclusion. Reed shrugged. Get a diplomat talking and what did you expect?

He paused in surprise. Well now. Lasagna? He couldn't remember the last time Chef had made lasagna. It smelled home made too. He helped himself to a generous portion and moved on down the line. A nice salad, some tea and then check out the dessert rack. _"Drat"_ The dessert rack was empty. Perhaps there was more back in the kitchen, Malcolm considered hopefully. He gave the buzzer a push and waited for a crewman to stick his head out.

"Commander Reed? May I assist you?" Malcolm stopped breathing while cold prickles ran up his back. His head swiveled as of its own accord to face the doorway. A young woman's face, surmounting an apron and framed in a white kitchen cap, observed him with perfect equanimity. Reed fought hard not to pitch his tray, and make a break for the door.

"Lady T'Jala," he greeted her, in a voice half an octave higher than normal. "Fanc- Fancy meeting you here."

"It would seem inevitable that we would encounter each other eventually," T'Jala noted. "As we are serving on the same ship."

Malcolm Reed stood silent and stupefied, his tray forgotten in his hands. T'Jala glanced at his selection and looked pleased. "I see that you have elected to sample my lasagna. I sincerely hope that it meets with your approval. Thus far I have received uniformly positive feedback regarding it."

Malcolm continued to stare. "Is there something you need, Commander?" T'Jala asked again. "If I am not mistaken, you did press the buzzer."

"I... dessert." Malcolm did not shift his gaze or his hands.

T'Jala permitted the slightest hint of a smile to lift the corners of her lips. "I am glad that you inquired. Chef has informed me that you particularly enjoy pineapple. I made a pineapple upside down cake in the hope that you might enjoy it. I will bring you a piece."

"You..." Malcolm watched the door swing shut in a daze. _"No. She isn't here. I'm hallucinating from overwork. No, not that. I'm dreaming. That's it. I'm asleep. I've fallen asleep in the captain's ready room. Since I was hungry, I'm dreaming about the mess hall and now it has turned into a nightmare."_

The door opened again and T'Jala emerged with a small plate holding a generous portion of cake. "Here you are, Commander. I would appreciate your evaluation of its quality. It is my objective to perfect my skills in all forms of Terran foods."

"I. I. I. Certainly, Lady T'Jala." He took the cake with a fixed and glassy smile.

"Crewman T'Jala, actually," she told him helpfully.

"Crewman T'Jala," he acknowledged and fled.

&

The next checkpoint was a seep, high up on a cliff wall. Trip had to cling with one hand and both feet while he dug out the token and refilled his canteen. Then he painfully worked his way back down the natural chimney, all the while cursing the planet Vulcan, Vulcan culture, Vulcan traditions, Vulcan gravity, the Vulcan sun, Vulcan wildlife, Vulcan insects, Vulcan plant life, and himself for not demanding that they move to Alaska.

The checkpoint after that was deep inside a low cave. The roof was barely a meter high at its peak. Trip peered blindly inside and realized that there was no way he would be able to find anything by T'Khutlight. Only during the last hour of the day would he be able to see far enough into the cave to be able to locate the spring.

Of course, he could always get down on his belly and go crawling in blind...

Yeah, right. He pitched his shelter next to the best positioned boulder he could find. Which wasn't very well positioned, actually. Then he sat down to wait. And wait. And wait. Counting the minutes until sunset, and thinking up new ways to curse himself for not cobbling up some kind of torch before he came into the mountains.

He packed up and got ready to move as soon as the sun touched the upper rim of the cave. When the sunbeam sank below the entrance Trip started to slowly work his way inside. He was three body lengths in when he heard the rustling. Trip doubled back on his own length like a snake and made it back outside in four seconds flat. Then he bounded away from the entrance and stood gasping while he unwrapped his bola.

A family of terrified k'bets came pouring out around his feet a moment later, streaming across the sand and dashing for the cracks and crannies in the rock pile behind him. Trip closed his eyes and slumped down on his heels, cursing every desert on every planet in the galaxy, and all rodents ever born. He went back in and used the bola to sweep the k'bet nest aside, clearing the spring and uncovering the token box.

The next waterhole had to be dug out. It was kept covered by a shield of flat rocks and buried in sand to protect it from wind and animals. The token box was built into the side wall.

The one after that was a wide pool inside a refreshing cave with plenty of room to stretch out. Trip slept like a baby in that one, until the scream of a hunting sehlat chased him out and up the nearby slope. He spent all night waiting for the saber-toothed grizzly bear to get tired and go away. Finally he lost patience and started flinging rocks at the animal, screaming challenge and curses. The small stones barely caught the beast's attention, so Trip looked around and picked up a piece of chert the size of his head and flung it overhead with both hands. The jagged edged piece of mineral struck the sehlat directly between the shoulder blades and provoked a squall of outrage. Eventually, the ongoing barrage convinced the sehlat to seek less abusive prey.

One after another, the checkpoints passed. Trip felt his clothes loosening and his strength fading. But with each night, the final checkpoint crept closer.

&

"Thank you, Crewman," Captain Archer said politely.

"Certainly, Captain," T'Jala told him. She nodded and turned to serve Malcolm his breakfast. "I hope you enjoy your eggs this morning, Commander. I obtained Chef's approval to use a Rigellian seasoning called tarka, similar to your pepper but not as pungent." She offered him a tiny, but very bright, smile.

"I'm sure they will be quite satisfactory, Crewman," Malcolm told her stiffly.

T'Jala finished serving and asked, "Will there be anything further?" They both indicated not, so she turned her cart and headed back toward the kitchen. Malcolm determinedly kept his eyes fixed on his plate until she had finished passing through the doorway.

"Sir..." Malcolm simmered. "I honestly don't know how much longer I can take this."

"Oh come on, Commander," Archer protested uneasily. "She has been perfectly proper ever since she arrived. At least from what I have seen."

Reed dropped his napkin with a shaking hand. "Perfectly? Proper?" He bit the words off. "I can't escape the bloody woman!" He glared at the captain. "When I step into the mess hall, she always, _always_ has something special cooked up just for me. When I go into the gym, she is working out on the next mat, or the next exercise bike. And, excuse my bluntness Captain, but I would never have expected a Vulcan to wear such revealing workout clothing. An Orion would blush to be seen in public in some of the things she wears! When I am on the shooting range practicing, she shows up asking for lessons. When it's movie night, she needs someone to explain Human cultural symbols. I am starting to become paranoid about taking a shower with my quarters unlocked."

Archer rubbed his temple. "Malcolm, there's nothing I can do. I told you that. Admiral Gardner cut the orders himself. Minister T'Pau made a personal request to Trask, and Trask told Gardner that it would really smooth things out with the Vulcans as far as this tech swap goes. So we are stuck with her, come hell or high water."

"And that's the other thing," Malcolm started to let his blood pressure rise. "She may have the so-called rank of Crewman, but we both know that she's nothing more than a civilian passenger with special privileges. You know as well as I do why she's here."

"Why she chose to come here has nothing to do with any choices you might make, Commander," Archer suddenly turned serious. "If you are not interested, then don't let her, or Admiral Gardner, or anyone else push you."

"I know, Captain." He looked frustrated. "I don't want to hurt her feelings. After all, she is a fine woman. Quite attractive really. But..."

Archer shrugged and said neutrally, "Well, if she is attractive maybe you might consider talking to her. But of course that's up to you. Trip seems well satisfied."

Malcolm raised both eyebrows and pursed his lips. "He does, doesn't he?" He dug up a fork full of eggs. "I suppose the root of the problem is that I hate to be-" He paused with a strange expression, chewing thoughtfully. "These really are quite good."

"Attractive and she can cook," Archer pointed out. "A man could do worse." He took a sip of coffee and watched Malcolm eat his breakfast pensively.

&

The rock walls on either side started to spread out as the dirt underfoot sloped upward. Trip continued trudging, one foot in front of the other. The sun was sinking. The dirt was rising and the sun was sinking...and the dirt was rising...sun sinking... dirt rising... sun... rising dirt... sinking... dirt?... rising sun?... no dirt sinking...

He shook his head. One more hill. Just one more hill. That's all. One. More. Hill. All he had to do was keep putting one foot ahead of another to get tothetopofthis...

He was at the top. Trip weaved and staggered, then toppled forward to his knees in the sand. The rock walls of the canyon flared on either side of him to become the cliffs of Tan'yak-lir. Two hundred meters ahead of him was the final checkpoint. And the sun was still shining. He had made it. Mirages danced across the sand, warping the pavilion where the judges waited like the view of a starfield when a ship first broke warp. Behind the pavilion blinding light flared from the surfaces of aircars, neatly parked in rows.

Trip groaned and got one foot under himself, pushing hard with both hands to lever his body back up. _"It's all downhill from here." _ Two hundred meters. Maybe three hundred staggering steps. He could do that. All he had to do was keep going downhill. Follow nice Mr. Gravity. Trip giggled and stumbled forward. One foot in front of the other, while the sunlight hammered and hammered and hammered the top of his skull.

He didn't even feel the shade of the pavilion. He only knew that he had arrived when the edge of the judging table hit him at pelvis level. For a moment Trip stood dazed, clueless about what to do. _"Oh. Yeah."_ He threw back his hood and looked up.

T'Pol was there, standing off at the far edge of the pavilion and looking proud. Suddenly nothing else mattered. The pain, the heat, the thirst, none of it mattered. His mate was here for him. Trip locked eyes with her and new strength flowed into his soul. His body still felt like shit, but his spirit was renewed. All he needed now was food and water and a bath and some sleep. He would be good as new.

The three elderly Vulcans, two men and one woman, sat impassively watching him from the other side of the table. Trip wracked his brain until inspiration struck again. He stated his name, then started digging out the tokens one at a time and laying them on the table, giving a brief description of the location and configuration of each water site. When he had finished Trip stood stiffly and waited for them to confirm that he has passed the test and could go home.

The center judge, a particularly wizened old fart with a permanently sour expression looked disdainfully at the pile of tokens, glanced at the sun which stood halfway below the horizon, and shook his head. "Unfortunately Commander Tucker, you have missed the deadline. The test requires that the entrants complete the course before sunset. The sun had already touched the horizon before your arrival."

Trip felt his scalp muscles tighten. "Why you..."

T'Pol must have teleported. It was the only logical explanation. No other method could have gotten her across the intervening distance so quickly. "I dispute your finding, and I call upon the other judges for a consensus ruling. I base this dispute on the fact that when I took the test, several applicants reported on the final day after the sun had touched the horizon, yet were found to have completed the course."

"I concur," the woman judge noted. "I see no reason to require Commander Tucker to adhere to stricter standards than any other applicant."

"Tucker is an adult," the sourpuss snapped.

"He is a Human," the second man pointed out. "The Chief Minister herself has acknowledged that this places him at a disadvantage."

"Be advised," T'Pol told them, "that if my dispute is rejected I will appeal the ruling to the High Council."

"Where it will no doubt be upheld," the sourpuss sneered, "given that the Chief Minister herself has decided that this Human shall be granted citizenship. As I am outvoted, I withdraw my objection. You have passed the test."

"Listen, Chuckles," Trip seethed. T'Pol tried frantically to signal him, which he ignored. "I'd like to see you haul your arrogantly withered ass to Earth and try an arctic survival course sometime. Or better yet, drag your helpless carcass down around the swamplands where I grew up. You would be gator bait before you finished getting your robes fluffed out to suit you."

"Trip," T'Pol pleaded. He subsided with a final dirty look for the center judge and started around the table. T'Pol met him before he reached the halfway point. Trip stopped and felt a shiver of relief. He offered the two fingered greeting of mates with a smile. T'Pol looked at his hand for an instant, then enveloped him in a Human hug which was promptly return with interest. The Vulcans averted their eyes.

"Ah, lady. I missed you." Trip whispered into her ear. "You have no way of knowing how much I missed you."

"To the contrary, husband," she murmured. "I believe I know exactly how much. Somewhat less than half as much as I have missed you." He kissed her cheek in the interest of public decorum.

"Is the car here? She nodded and led him toward their somewhat scratched and dented transportation. To Trip, it looked like a golden chariot. A chariot complete with air conditioning. It was like sitting down in a walk-in freezer. A whimper of joy worked its way out of him as he collapsed back against the seat.

T'Pol started the lift motors and told him, "I have brought some root beer as well as water and a few light snacks for you. Nothing too substantial at first, though. You should give your stomach time to readjust."

"My goddess," Trip told her. "I would bow down at your feet if I could move."

"Rest for now," she told him. "It is over. We will be back at Shi'Kahr in approximately 43.7 minutes. From there it is perhaps 19 minutes to Eldest T'Para's home. Then you can recuperate at your leisure."

Trip reached down and pulled up a cold bottle. He smiled and put forth a distressing amount of effort to twist the cap off. The cold foam hit his belly hard. "Oof! I see what you mean," he admitted. "But it sure feels good." Trip leaned back again and gasped. "I have a few things to tell you."

"Indeed," she said. "And I have some things to tell you as well. But there is no need to hurry."

Trip nodded and took another sip of root beer. "Did George talk to you before he went home?"

T'Pol glanced over. "Yes. He made a point of visiting us to say goodbye. He told us that the assassins who were pursuing you had been dealt with, but he was reticent about details. We later learned that they are in the custody of Starfleet, undergoing intensive interrogation." She paused, uncertain about continuing.

"Yeah." Trip looked forward out the windshield. "Did they spill the beans?"

T'Pol told him gingerly, "They admitted that they had been hired to eliminate you." She stopped. "Trip, there is no need to discuss this now. We can wait until you are feeling better."

"V'Rald." Trip said. T'Pol winced.

"Yes." T'Pol took a deep breath. "Ganlas visited me at the Eldest Mother's two days ago. Ordinarily, he would have waited until your return. But since you saw fit to insist on providing me with the dagger..." Trip looked amused.

"You are still feeling uncomfortable about that? Why? I trust you with my life, my fortune, and my sacred honor. What's the big deal?" Trip wondered. "I still don't understand it."

T'Pol looked vexed. "It is not necessarily a 'big deal', Trip. It is not a matter of trust either. It is... it is _embarrassing._"

"Embarrassing?" Trip scoffed. "How can it possibly be embarrassing?"

T'Pol snapped, "How could you possibly find it embarrassing to go out in public wearing a woman's evening dress?" Trip paused with his mouth open. "Why did you seem uncomfortable during Elizabeth's Inclusion ceremony, when you were the only male present? Why do you not wear lipstick like Hoshi Sato does?"

Trip subsided. "I never looked at it that way."

"No," she scolded, "you did not. You made no effort to look at it that way, did you? To you, there was no reason for me to feel uncomfortable at conducting family business, therefore there must not be any reason. You refused to acknowledge that my culture might have good and sufficient reasons for placing the divisions between the genders that we do. But instead, you merely forced them aside with a contemptuous wave of your hand." She sighed. "I am sorry, Trip. I... I am sorry. I did not realize that I was carry this much buried irritation. I have not been meditating well lately."

"It's not as if you haven't had reason," Trip told her in a subdued voice. "I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable. From now on I will try to carry as much of the load as I possibly can. OK?"

She sniffed. "OK." T'Pol smiled at him. "To continue. Ganlas reported that Starfleet has refused to turn over the prisoners. However, they have permitted the Security Directorate to have generous access to them and full access to the information they provide. Based on this, V'Rald has been arrested and his property has been forfeited to the government."

Trip chuckled warmly. "It couldn't possibly happen to a nicer guy. I take it that Koss won't inherit it now?"

"Koss would not have inherited it in any case," T'Pol told him. "Or not all of it. V'Rald has no sons."

Trip scratched his head and took another swig. "My brain is starting to cool off and maybe function a little bit. I thought Koss was his heir. I know women can't inherit property, that's why your mom's house went back to your dad's clan after she passed away. But if it doesn't go from uncle to nephew, how does it go? Grandfather to grandson?"

"No," she said. "If a man does not have sons, his property returns to his clan for distribution among his closest male relatives. Koss would have inherited part of V'Rald's holdings, his grandsons would have gained part, and so on."

"And now who gets it?" Trip wanted to know.

"That," T'Pol told him, "is the reason that Ganlas came to visit." She looked across at him. "Vulcan law states that the victim of a criminal attack is entitled to compensation from the attacker. V'Rald not only hired those assassins to attack you, he also hired a different assassin to go to Earth and provide information to Terra Prime on our location. Both efforts failed-"

"_**He what!?"**_

"The assassin in question is dead," T'Pol told him. "Ganlas strongly suspects that an operative of Starfleet Intelligence took it upon themselves to deliver summary justice, but he has no proof."

"I love those guys," Trip muttered. "Go on."

"A portion of V'Rald's holdings has been designated to be presented as victim compensation. Specifically, you now own 15% of V'Rald's previous property."

"You gotta be kiddn' me." Trip stared in slack jawed amazement. "I'm a Human!"

"No, husband. I am quite serious." She gave him another tiny smile. "You are a Human citizen of Vulcan, as of today." Trip grunted and looked back out the window again for a few moments.

"So then," he finally said, "check if I understand this right. As long as I am alive we own 15% of what V'Rald used to have. But once I croak you and T'Lissa lose it all, right? Do any of my family get any of it?"

"I- I would think not." T'Pol considered. "I doubt that the Council would permit a non-Vulcan to own such potentially sensitive installations." She saw him slump and hurried onward. "But do not concern yourself, Trip. If need be, my clan will always provide for us."

"But if there were male members of my clan on Vulcan, you wouldn't have to worry about it?" Trip wanted to know.

"Essentially, yes," she told him. "But I doubt that any members of your family would be interested in immigrating."

"Well then," Trip ruminated for a while. "I guess the only logical thing for us to do is have a son."

T'Pol considered the matter briefly and her smile widened. "I suppose, given the exigencies of the situation, it actually is the most logical course of action open to us."

"I wonder how T'Lissa will take to having a baby brother?" Trip speculated.

"As long as she refrains from providing him with tutelage in climbing techniques, I will not complain," T'Pol stated firmly.

&

Eaytke appeared in the middle of a graveled path along the perimeter of his family estate. He paused to take a deep breath of pure air and rest his eyes on the infinite depths of the open starfield overhead. The moon's primary, Filtikahr, was a third risen with bluish light splashing over the foliage that his wife had spent decades gathering from a hundred planets across uncounted eons. The moaning howl of a Terran dire wolf vibrated across the night as she called her cubs to join her in a new kill. Most likely a Bandoan kavo, he reflected.

He smiled. L'pyra was an artist at the craft of ecological balancing. She had spent many long years calculating the perfect proportion for each species in this polyglot forest. There were trees, bushes, cycads, reeds, grasses, mosses, fish, insects, reptiles, birds, mammals, sauropods, and micro-organisms from not only various planets, but also from various time periods along the line on each planet. Earth for example, was represented by dire wolves, opossums, archaeopteryx, and passenger pigeons. The environmental dome overhead had undergone nearly constant adjustment over the years as his wife had tweaked the height and diameter, oxygen content, atmospheric density, gravity, and solar filtering. Finally, two hundred and thirty-seven years ago, she had declared it done - to everyone's great relief.

Eaytke strolled leisurely through the fern trees and watched in amusement as a Talaxian porlos chattered angrily at a Klingon targ who was in the process of uprooting its home fern. The targ stopped and whuffed at the passing man curiously, then returned to business. The children had probably named it something, but Eaytke never bothered to remember. The ephemeral lifespans of such creatures made it not worth the effort.

A faint scrape and a whisper of air just behind warned him and brought a delighted grin to his face. He got set just in time to turn a helpless fall into a forward roll onto the grassy sward. Eaytke twisted and got an arm around L'pyra, working his fingers into her hair and planting a wet kiss on her full lips.

"Ahhrrrooow!" She growled in frustration. "You have to be more than a tenth Vulcan. I don't care what you say. With those ears you can't be otherwise."

"Can I help it if you have let your stalking skills get rusty?" he teased her. He worked the other hand into her hair and captured her mouth for a longer kiss before they both bounded to their feet.

"I was afraid I would have to let the youngsters eat without you," L'pyra told him as they started walking arm in arm. "They are to the point of gnawing the furniture already. If you had been late it would not have been pretty."

"Never," Eaytke swore. "One advantage of working for the Temporal Patrol." He grinned and leaned over to nibble her ear. She bared one tooth and looked up at him with shining eyes. "Heard anything from the Organians yet?"

"Finally," she told him. "They are being as hidebound as usual. But we finally got them to cough up the data they collected half a billion years ago. Back when they made their one, single, whole, entire, attempt to pierce the universal matrix."

L'pyra extended her retractile fingernails and started scratching her husband's back. He moaned in ecstasy. "Oh yes, right there. Wait, wait." Eaytke peeled out of his shirt. "Now." L'pyra chuckled and worked her nails in around his back ridge, provoking gratifying sounds of blissful contentment. "Ahhhh," he finally said. "My friends warned me about marrying a woman with Caitan blood. They said you would claw me to pieces. But where else am I going to get a back scratch like this?"

"Where indeed?" she purred. Then she nipped his shoulder. "Now, if we don't get inside the children are truly going to claw both of us to pieces."

"By all means," her husband told her. They resumed walking toward the center of the estate. "Are the preparations for the initial probe on schedule?"

L'pyra did not answer. Eaytke looked strangely at her. "You are blocking me. Why?"

She stopped walking and looked away. "Tell me, husband. Do you ever wonder if we are going too far? We have long since passed the boundaries of our own galaxy. We manipulate the multi-dimensional fabric of space/time effortlessly. We chart the flow of alternate time lines. Sometimes we even permit the temporary formation of alternate lines for our own purposes. We play with space and times and the lives of lesser creatures as if we were gods. But this... Are we going too far, Eaytke? To open the underlying fabric of primal creation? To explore the basal matrix of existence?"

Eaytke looked thoughtfully at her. "Do you remember the Q?" Her brow wrinkled.

"Ye-ess. I think so. Energy beings, weren't they?"

"Originally, yes," Eaytke told her. "But they were static. They evolved soon after the universe and stayed essentially unchanged for billions of years. Unchanged, unchallenged, ungrowing." He shook his head. "A few of them, a tiny minority tried to salvage their species by learning how to reproduce. But it didn't work. They learned how to replicate themselves. But they were still inherently incapable of self-improvement. And now they are gone."

"I see." L'pyra said. She turned around. "I take your point. But I am still frightened, Eaytke. What will we find?"

"If we knew that," he said patiently, "there would be no point in going to look." He added, "But theoretically we should be able to access other universes. An infinite number of other universes."

"As if one infinite universe isn't enough?" she scoffed.

"It may be infinite, beloved," he pointed out, "but we are not. At least not yet. Even singularity dilation has range limits. At our current lifespan, we will never be able to access more than fifty galaxies at most. If we are even able to reach that many. But with basal matrix transport there is no limit to how far we can travel. Instantaneously."

"I can only hope that you are right." She started walking again with a pensive expression. "What have you been so bound up with these last few days? Aerlonas told me that it was confidential, but that you could probably tell me about it once things settled down."

Eaytke grunted in disgust. "It was a rather tedious, and at times nauseating clean up job in the pre-Federation Sagitarius-Alpha quadrant. I had to repair a mess that the incompetent primitives in the earlier Temporal Agency made."

"For four days?" she asked incredulously. "How could something so far back in such a limited area take so long to fix?" He sighed.

"It's like..." He waved a hand around at the forest. "It's like ecology. Each piece fits into every other piece. Change one detail and the whole thing shifts."

"I understand," she told him. "So what exactly was going on in the pre-Federation Sagitarius-Alpha quadrant. What Federation?"

"You remember the Triax Confederacy don't you?" Eaytke asked her. "It lasted eighty thousand years and covered over half the Sagitarius galaxy. The first civilization to get that big since the fall of the T'Kon empire."

"I think I remember reading about it in pre-school," L'pyra said doubtfully. "That was more years ago than I like to think about. So this was before that period?"

"Well before," he explained. "The word Triax is an ancient Human word that refers to the number three. The Triax Confederacy actually began as an alliance between the Romulan empire, the Klingon empire, and the Federation of Planets. I was working with the Humans and the Vulcans in the time before the formation of the Federation."

"So this Federation was an alliance between Humans and Vulcans?" she asked casually.

Eaytke shrugged. "Among other races. You should know this stuff. We are talking about your ancestors after all. You have more Human blood than I do."

"Oh, I see," L'pyra said ironically. "I am 23% Human, so I should be an expert on every aspect of Terran history? I have better things to do with my time that pore over the most obscure details of paleontology."

Eaytke laughed. "In any case, we-"

"Father!" They both turned to see their youngest daughter, M'ress, come leaping and bounding at them from beneath the undergrowth. She made a final pounce and hit Eaytke in mid-chest, clutching him around the neck and nuzzling his hair.

"'There's my girl," he told her fondly, rumpling her bangs. Eaytke noted yet again how she had inherited her grandfather's brow ridges along with L'ypera's thick mane of hair. When combined with her bright sapphire eyes the child's appearance was remarkably striking. Though only seventy-one years old, she was already starting to turn the little boy's heads. Eaytke was starting to dread the day when they began to line up at his door.

"I missed you, father," she said. "Hurry up and come inside. I'm hungry. And Nusef and Ler'til are fighting because Ler'til took the first piece of meat and-"

"I will go separate the gladiators," L'pyra sighed. "Coming?"

"You go help your mother remind your brothers how to act civilized," Eaytke told M'ress. "I will be right in," he added to his wife. He watched fondly as his womenfolk stepped into empty space and disappeared.

He looked up again into the endless darkness, thinking. He remembered what his wife had said. _ "I am 23% Human..."_

They were all adventurers in those days. All of them. But something about the Humans of that time caught his imagination. They were special somehow. Just... he wasn't sure how to put it. Devil may care? Crazy? Perhaps there were no words to describe it.

"_To boldly go where no one has gone before."_

"All right, Grandfather," Eaytke mused. "If that's what you want. We can still do that. I hope we haven't disappointed you so far." He lowered his gaze. Infinity awaited. Eventually. But for now...

Eaytke grinned. He reached from deep within and laid his will upon the fabric of space/time, twisting and opening a localized wormhole. Then he stepped through to join his family at dinner.

-finis-


End file.
